Landmoor

by Jeff Wheeler

  “It’s a long walk,” Thealos said, “But if we make good time, you’ll soon enjoy a feathered mattress and cushions in Castun. We should reach the Shadows Wood before nightfall and Castun the next day if we hurry.”

  “Good enough, my lord,” Ticastasy said, brushing her arms for warmth. “Let’s walk.”

  In the dim dawn light, Thealos led them westward along the shoreline, following the trail of the ocean. Thealos walked slowly enough to keep from being separated from them. The fog shied away completely around noon. Colors lit the valley in shades of green and umber with dazzling fields of yellow wildflowers and blue snap-weeds. Thealos carried the bow on his shoulder, inhaling the fresh scents. He didn’t let on that he’d never been here before, trusting in Jaerod’s directions and the rumored size of the Shadows Wood.

  After stopping for a meal at midday, they continued over a wide range of inland hills. Thealos’ legs strained with the climb, but it felt good. Flent had the most trouble keeping up. His thick Drugaen legs were used to the flat streets of Sol. Beyond the third range of hills, a dense black-green forest swallowed up the prairie in front of them. The Shadows Wood. The only thing higher was the jagged outline of the Kingshadow Mountains behind it on the other side of the valley. Even from the top of the hill, they couldn’t see the other end of the wood.

  “And I thought the woods of Avisahn were big,” Flent muttered, brushing his hands together as he panted. “We’ve bloody got to cross that?”

  Thealos smirked and nodded. “It’s broad and ugly, Flent. But it is much smaller than the forests of my homeland.” The forests of Avisahn stretched the entire length of the Ravenstone Mountains. He felt a sudden pang of loss, remembering it. The Shadows Wood was probably half its size or less. Next to the bleached brown grass of the prairies and the green oak leaves, the dark tangled vine maple and cedar were ominous. Landmoor was somewhere on the southern edge of the forest, too far to see. He felt a small smile twitch on his mouth and wished he’d been able to send a courier to Nordain at that moment. So sorry I couldn’t respond to your summons yet, but the weather has been good and the scenery wonderful. The food isn’t as choice as the baking guilds, but then…you already knew that.

  Pressing ahead, they reached the forest before sunset. In the Inland valley before the forest, Thealos had found drying mounds of horse droppings and long swaths of trampled grass. The trail led away from the forest. Kiran Thall horsemen, probably. Skirting the path, they came at a quick pace until they reached the tangled branches of cedar.

  Trees loomed around them, punctuated by the angry clicking of beetles and flutter of ravens. Thealos let his heavy travel pack down next to a sapling. He gently crouched and touched the dry stabbing pine needles that carpeted the ground. There was a faint musty smell – the distant murmur of Forbidden magic. He had no idea how far away the sense was coming from, but it did not feel imminent. The forest was not friendly, and he could feel a certain hardness in the stiff crooked branches and the dead needles lying like a rug near the base of the trees. The forest was polluted. He wasn’t sure how, but there was something dark afoot. It felt distant, vague.

  “Are we going to camp here?” Flent panted. His boots crunched the twigs and needles.

  Ticastasy leaned back against a tree. “I’m exhausted. I’m used to walking, but in circles around tables. You must be used to this, young lord.”

  Thealos brushed the scrub away and pressed his fingers against the dirt. Closing his eyes, he tried to sink into the Earth magic, to be one with it. The feeling was always stronger in the woodlands than in the cities. It nagged at him, familiar yet different. Breathing slowly, he tried to sift through his feelings, but they were too tangled, too conflicting. He tried to feel the presence of the Everoot, but something overshadowed it. Something Forbidden.

  “Is he asleep?” she asked.

  “Maybe he’s praying,” Flent muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

  Thealos opened his eyes and glanced back at them. He rose and brushed his hands together. “A little further. I’m not sure I like the feeling of this place.”

  “Further?” Flent asked, dropping his sack. “We’ve been marching…all banned day! My feet have earned a few blisters and I’ve got rocks in my boots the size of walnuts.”

  Thealos glanced over at the serving girl. “Are you tired too?”

  “I’m exhausted,” she said, folding her arms. “I thought that fourth hill was going to kill me.”

  Thealos wiped his mouth and sighed. “We really should go on, but I guess we can stop here. This whole forest feels wrong. Now, do either of you know how to build a fire without giving off a lot of smoke?” They looked at him blankly. “Set a snare for a rabbit?”

  The serving girl cocked her head. “We may be from the city, my lord. But we’re not fools. Flent, learn how to light the fire. I’d like to learn how to build a snare.”

  * * *

  A ring of stones crowned the small cooking fire, and Thealos adjusted one with the toe of his boot. Thin sheets of smoke wafted up through the trees, obscuring the scattered specks of winking stars. He adjusted the rolled up blanket behind his head and rested his hands on his chest. Flent unstopped his little cask and poured himself a mug of Spider Ale. He grinned and started savoring the sips. It was his third, and from the sloshing sound, the cask was nearly empty. The serving girl sat next to the Drugaen, brushing out her tangled hair with a stiff-bristled brush. Thealos watched her, feeling a little jealous of their companionship. He felt like an outsider.

  “I’ll never get these pants clean,” she murmured to Flent, brushing the dust off. “And I only brought a quick change of clothes with me. I hope they have a decent tailor in Castun.”

  “And a bath,” Flent added. “You smell like a sailor, girl.”

  She butted him in the ribs and gave him a scolding look. Thealos grinned wolfishly. “Don’t tease her, Flent. I’ve been gagging since you took off your boots.”

  Ticastasy let out a burst of laughter. It made her eyes crinkle pleasantly as she smiled. He gave Flent a wink to apologize, but the Drugaen took the drubbing good-naturedly.

  “Castun is a trading post,” Thealos explained, “But even if they have good wool from the Clothweaver Guild, it’ll still cost four times more than it’s worth. Here,” he said, sitting up and rummaging through his travel pack. Down in the bottom, he wrestled out the bundle wrapped in oilskin that Tomn the cook had bought in Sol. “This doesn’t quite fit me anymore,” he teased, untying the leather thongs and revealing the rich fabric. He hadn’t looked at it since he’d escaped from Tannon’s Band. As he lifted the folds, he stared down at the fine wool gown, a rich shade of ochre with a blue and violet trim around the bodice.

  “Sweet Achrolese, it’s beautiful!” Ticastasy said with delight. She crossed around the fire and sat next to him, staring at it in amazement. “This came from the Green Weaver in Sol, didn’t it? How much did it cost?”

  “Twenty pieces, if I remember right,” Thealos replied dryly. “It’s yours.”

  “I can’t take this,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s too beautiful. A barter’s daughter might wear it, but not a serving girl.”

  “What am I going to do with it?”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Well, you don’t really have the right coloring for it. But why did you get it? Did you mean it for someone? Was it a gift for the Princess of Avisahn?”

  Thealos shook his head. “No, Shae women prefer silk or damask. It’s a good quality gown though, look at the stitch-markings. Three, see that?” He showed her the seam and the stitch. “It’s worth at least thirty in Dos-Aralon. If you ever wanted to sell it.”

  Ticastasy eyed him warily. “And you didn’t mean this for someone, then?”

  He shook his head. “I think it would suit you well.”

  She folded the fabric reverently and tied it up in the oilskin again. When she finished, she scooted up closer to him. Flent’s head was starting to droop down on his ch
est. The beginnings of a very loud snore were starting to rumble in his throat. She seemed a little more comfortable sitting near him, and he could see his own glowing eyes reflected in hers. Her eyes were an interesting color in the firelight. Cinnamon. He liked that. Rare as a brown-eyed Shae…

  “Who are you?” she asked, picking at the scrubs of pine needles.

  “What do you mean?”

  She nodded. “Back in the Foxtale, you said you were Thealos. Don’t the Shae lords have family names too?”

  He understood now. “Quickfellow,” he answered, watching her eyes. Did she know anything about the noble Silvan houses? Would she know that Silverborne or Silvershire or any dozen other names meant royalty in Avisahn? Not Quickfellow – never Quickfellow. He wanted to tell her he was only the son of a barter. He should tell her.

  “Quickfellow,” she said. “I like that better.” She gave him a teasing look. “Thealos is so heady. Doesn’t come off the tongue very well. But Quickfellow has a nice sound. Would it offend you if I called you that? I just can’t call someone ‘my lord,’ not if they can tease Flent about the smell of his socks.”

  He smiled. “It wouldn’t offend me. And what should I call you then? Ticastasy is a mouthful as well.”

  “Well, Flent calls my ‘Stasy. He’s the only one who can get away with it.” She winked at Thealos. “Up until now. You can call me that too if you want.”

  “It has a nice sound,” he said, smiling. She sat close to him, making him a little uncomfortable. He felt blood rising to his face. Their hands were almost touching. Why had he noticed that? She wasn’t Laisha Silverborne by any stretch of Silvan standards. Brown hair and brown eyes, about as human as she could get. Her skin was rich-colored, not pale like the Shae. Her cinnamon eyes would have been unfashionable in his homeland, but they looked well on her.

  “You were wearing a pendant last night. Can I see it?”

  “Your glowing eyes see too much, Quickfellow.” She tugged at her collar and pulled up the gold chain and sparrow, cupping the pendant in her hand for him to see. It glittered in the firelight.

  “Pretty. Who gave it to you?”

  “Someone I thought was very special to me.” She pursed her lips. “He was supposed to see me last week, but never came to port. I’ve thought about taking it to a goldsmith to melt down and turned into earrings instead.” She shrugged and huffed. “Maybe I’m not as important to him after all.”

  “He’s a fool then.”

  “You think so?” she replied. She sidled up a little closer. Her fingers grazed his. She scooped the pendant down her shirt again and shook her head. “You surprise me, Quickfellow. Most of the Shae I’ve met aren’t nearly as well-mannered. I appreciate your kindness in looking after us.”

  The blade of Jade-Shayler flared awake at his hip. Tingles of Silvan magic sent a warning thrust of heat through his body. Then he smelled it, seeping into the small camp, coiling in the air like smoke. Not from their campfire. The smell was strong. Forbidden magic. He knew it instinctively.

  “Something is wrong,” he warned, putting his hand on her shoulder as he rolled into a defensive crouch. He slid the blade from his belt and felt it lick at his hand hungrily. He began to draw its magic inside him, preparing himself.

  “What is it?” she whispered, staying perfectly still.

  “I don’t know,” he replied in a low voice, trying to get a sense of how close the danger was. He could feel it, thick and alive. And coming closer. He turned around and scanned the treeline. Not there.

  Looking over the serving girl’s shoulder, Thealos saw a dark-armored Drugaen just outside the full light of the campfire.

  XVII

  There was no battle cry or hiss of warning, just ice-white eyes. A Drugaen warrior stood in the shadows, clenching a tapered short sword marked with strange runes. The slender blade glinted in the firelight, and the chill of Forbidden magic swept over the grove. His eyebrows twitched with fury and an unmistakable expression of hate contorted his mouth. He came at Flent and raised the weapon up to kill.

  Thealos sprang forward. He whipped his Silvan blade around, the magic sending shocks of fire up his arm. The armored warrior was different than any Thealos had seen, but he had heard similar descriptions coming from frightened barters out of the Ravenstone. The warrior had pale eyes, a soot-colored beard, and slender eyebrows. His armor was the highest quality steel, sculpted with designs of twisting vines and skulls. A huge buckle made of white gold was emblazoned with an upside-down oak leaf.

  The weapons sparked and jolted as they clashed, arcing with power and magic. Forbidden met Silvan. Thealos felt his arm go numb with the shock of power, and the stench of the offending magic burned in his nose. The Drugaen reeked of it.

  With reflexes of a trained warrior, the dark Drugaen stepped in and backhanded Thealos with a gauntleted fist. The short sword whipped around and would have sliced him open from navel to throat, but the magic of the Silvan weapon saved him again. Flickering memories from a Crimson Wolfsman’s life swarmed in Thealos’ mind. The Drugaen hammered on him ruthlessly, the white eyes deadly and hateful. Thealos held him off, dazed by the quickness and ferocity of the attack. The fleeting images of the dead Wolfsman overpowered what he knew about sword-fighting, but it was just enough to parry the blows. Even with the magic, he was outmatched – and he knew it. Backing away, he nearly stumbled in the wooded glen. He saw Flent rise up behind his attacker.

  The Sheven-Ingen axe bit into the Drugaen’s armor from behind. Thealos ducked to the side, trying to save his own life. The Drugaen shrugged off Flent’s blow and wheeled around to face him. He snorted, grinning with loathing and hate, and lunged forward with the dark magic. The short sword spit sparks as it slashed and glanced off the axe. Flent held his ground, using the flat of the blade to parry the attacker’s strokes. He swept at the armored foe’s neck twice but missed as his opponent ducked the blow and countered.

  Thealos had a clear shot at the warrior’s back. He saw that Flent’s axe had split the armor open, leaving a black mesh of tangled mail. The armored Drugaen seemed to sense Thealos’ approach and whirled on him, keeping both men back. Thealos swore under his breath. A Krag Drugaen from the deep Ravenstone. They were the enemies of the Shae and the Drugaen Nation. What in Vannier’s name was he doing this far south? They never left the mountains – at least, not that he’d heard of.

  The Krag feinted with a sword thrust and then kicked Thealos in the stomach. The air rushed out of Thealos’ lungs with the force of the steel-shod boot. He couldn’t breathe. The Krag slashed his wrist and the Wolfsman blade thumped to the ground, the magic abandoning him as soon as it left his touch. Pain and nausea smothered him and he crumpled, grabbing frantically for his weapon.

  “You white-eyed craven…!” Flent roared, tackling the Krag from behind. The two rolled in the carpet of dead needles, thrashing and fighting. Flent was young and strong, but the armored Krag was a trained warrior. He flipped the stocky Flent over his shoulder and dropped heavily on the ground.

  Thealos grabbed his blade with his left hand, felt the Silvan magic rush to fill the void it had left. He struggled against the surge of power, tried to tame it and control it, to feed it with his need. The blade burned with blue fire, invoking a rage and hatred Thealos had never felt before. But that was dangerous – he had learned it with Tannon’s Band. Giving in to the anger made him careless. The Krag wouldn’t be brought down easily. He had to remember that. Thealos’s stomach still hurt, but the pain was washing away beneath the waves of surging power.

  Thealos wiped his eyes and blinked, then nearly shouted out a warning as he saw Ticastasy sneaking up behind the Krag with her knife.

  The Krag slammed Flent’s face down into the ground. Then he withdrew, wheeling on the girl. She looked frightened but kept a firm hold on her dagger. Gripping the blood-smeared blade, he stalked her, shifting the weapon from hand to hand. He swiped at her twice, but she managed to dodge it, luring the warrior away from Flent.r />
  “Leave him alone,” she warned, her voice trembling.

  Thealos staggered forward, clutching his stomach. Blood dripped from his wrist. Abruptly, from beyond the firelight, he heard the clatter and crunch of hooves in the forest. Sweet Vannier, no! Not the Kiran Thall. Not now. He gazed off into the dark woods. How much time did he have? Glancing back at Ticastasy, he hesitated. Flent was unconscious, his face a mess of blood and scratches. He would not be able to help. But Thealos had other magic. Magic the Krag didn’t have. Reaching into his vest, he withdrew the sack of Everoot and untied it. He snapped off a stub of the plant and chewed it, feeling the rush of relief as it healed him. It was a different feeling this time, adding a rawness that thrilled him. He knew the Krag wouldn’t be able to hurt him now, not with the taste of the Everoot in his mouth. He straightened, feeling his energy return. The cut in his wrist vanished, and he switched the blade to his other hand.

  Ticastasy shifted her grip on the knife. She watched the Krag as Thealos drew up behind him. She gave him a quick glance and a deft nod.

  “You’re a little short for her kind,” Thealos said, calling the Krag after him. “I haven’t finished with you yet, Krag.”

  The warrior turned and glared at him. He said nothing but started towards Thealos again.

  Thealos tightened his grip on the blade. He felt strong and alive. “You don’t wish to discuss terms first?” He saw her heft the dagger, ready to throw it. The Krag stalked closer. Thealos nodded back.

  Ticastasy threw her dagger at the Drugaen’s head.

  The Krag reacted instantly, raising his arm to deflect the blow. The dagger struck off the arm bracer, spinning into the trees. In that moment, Thealos attacked him from behind. He felt the power of a Crimson Wolfsman. The tip of Jade-Shayler’s blade screeched against metal, slicing through the steel with twisting shrieks of blue magic. The Krag’s chest exploded in a spurt of fire and scorched steel. Thealos clamped his arm around the Krag’s throat and drove the blade in up to the hilt, feeling the Silvan magic overwhelm the Forbidden, crushing its spark and power. Smoke chafed from the wound and the Krag sunk low, twitching with agony before dropping dead at Thealos’ feet.