by Jeff Wheeler
“Sweet Vannier,” Thealos gasped in shock, knowing by a sick feeling of sudden emptiness that Jaerod was gone. The thin prickle of gooseflesh that had followed him since Avisahn had winked out, abandoning him.
XXVI
Dujahn had encountered a Sleepwalker once before. When he was advising the City Duke of Trivaedi years before, one had entered the palace grounds and abducted the Duke’s daughter. Dujahn was the only one who had seen the man dressed in the darkest black walking the halls at night with unselfconscious ease. His heart had stopped for fear and he did nothing, not even when he saw the Sleepwalker carrying the girl out over his shoulder, bound and trussed. He would have died. He knew it then as clearly as he knew how to breathe. If the Sleepwalker knew he had been seen, Dujahn would have been killed. He never told the City Duke of Trivaedi. He’d never told any man.
Dujahn kept to the trees, watching as Miestri faced the Sleepwalker with an air of indifference. She was the most powerful person Dujahn had ever met, but he knew the reputation of the Sleepwalkers better than most.
This one was a medium-sized human, but fast as a cat. The black clothes disguised his movements, helped him blend in with the shadows and smoke. He had a wicked-looking tapered sword and handled it like an expert swordsman. There was no denying the Sleepwalker’s abilities. Dujahn didn’t get a good look at his face – the hood prevented that – but he saw the style and graceful movements, like a bird gliding just over the ripples of a lake. Effortless. Graceful. Deadly.
The sword whipped around again, catching the tongues of red fire and snapping them off before the flames could touch him. The sword was Silvan. There was no doubt about that. The blade glowed white, as if hot from the constant blasts of the Sorian’s power, but it stayed firm and hard. Tempered steel would have shattered by now.
Miestri smiled teasingly, advancing another two steps. The Sleepwalker didn’t run from her, but he shifted his position, always keeping her in front of him.
She spoke something in Silvan, a taunt. Dujahn struggled with it, trying to translate. Do you know how many of your brothers have begged me for a quick death? They wept, Sleepwalker. They wept for it. The Sleepwalker said nothing, focusing on the blade, ready to move when she attacked him again.
He’s good, Dujahn thought, clucking his tongue. A few Kiran Thall had gathered near him, keeping a safe distance. The camp was still reacting from the attackers, but the rest had gone into the forest. Dujahn had seen the two Shae slip away, but he had heard there were others. A knight, a woodsman, a Drugaen, and a woman. Strange company. Strange night.
A dazzling white flame jumped from the orb in Miestri’s hand, catching the Sleepwalker in the middle. He grunted with pain and swept the blade down, shattering the magic with the sword. Smoke burned from his chest and Dujahn’s eyes widened. Was he hit? He thought nothing could hit a Sleepwalker! He only saw the smoke drifting from the man’s chest. But as the Sleepwalker turned again, pacing in a half-circle around Miestri, Dujahn saw the smoking amulet. It had absorbed the blow. It had a strange marking – a cross set in an octagon. It matched the symbol on the pommel of his sword. Interesting…
“Must be the Sleepwalker from Castun,” one of the Kiran Thall whispered. “Ban…”
“Killed Secrist’s company, I heard,” another muttered. “Sent the rest squealing like pups.”
“Ssshhh!” Dujahn hissed, eyes intent on the battle in the edge of the woods.
The Sleepwalker and the Sorian faced off again. This time, Miestri bowed her head. Dujahn could feel the prick of magic in the air, the burnt smell of fire. The Sleepwalker tensed as red glaring flames exploded all around him. It came rushing at him from all sides like a sinkhole. The blast of heat and air singed Dujahn even at the distance and he covered his face.
“Sweet fury!”
From a cloudless night sky, a shaft of white lightning crackled down into the camp, swallowing everything in its dazzling glare. Thunder shook the trees, spilling pinecones and dead branches down. The clap knocked everyone to their knees.
Blinking quickly, Dujahn wondered in a panic if he were blind. He clenched his fists and stared at the ground until the white smear in front of his eyes cleared and he could see again. Looking up, he found Miestri standing alone, staring at a spot of scorched earth.
“She…she bloody killed him!” one of the Kiran Thall gasped.
Dujahn watched her in disbelief. But something was wrong. There was no look of triumph on her face. She stared at the smoking earth, studying it with cool fury. Dujahn stepped away from the others and advanced. The grove had been burned clean, leaving ash and soot everywhere. Only a smoldering pile of ashes in the middle showed the Sleepwalker’s last stand.
He stopped. A black sigil twice the size of a barrel lid scorched the earth where the Sleepwalker had stood. It was the same mark – an offset cross set into an octagon. The air smelled sharp and sour.
Miestri sniffed at the wind and leaned forward, studying the mark. Dujahn scratched his head and watched her. Her smooth pale skin was soft in the dim firelight, and her eyes were thoughtful and intrigued. She prodded the black ash with the toe of her padded slipper. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a long deep breath through her nose. She opened her hand, revealing the orb. It gave off that strange reddish light that continued to haunt Dujahn. “Tell them to stand back,” she said. The colors in the orb began to weave and convulse.
Dujahn swallowed, taking a short step back. “Back!” he said in a sharp voice. “Get back!”
The soldiers who watched were already abandoning the grove like waters receding after a rock is dropped in a pond. Dujahn couldn’t move. He stared at the sphere, drawn like a moth. The reddish light made the ground dim and hazy, like an early morning fog out at sea. Miestri’s hand tightened about the sphere, the tendons in her hand growing hard.
In an instant, the Sleepwalker stood before them, gripping his blade furiously, swarming red flames all around him. Dujahn felt the heat of the flames, felt the magic rush through his body as it attacked the Sleepwalker. He tried to cough and scream, but the flames didn’t burn. It was only an illusion. Miestri’s eyes grew hard and intense. The images slowed as if in a stupor. The flames looked like jagged knives, the colors slow and torpid. Everything seemed to happen like a slow, steady breath. Dujahn blinked with wonderment. He was watching it all over again.
Just as the flames reached the Sleepwalker, there was a burst of light, blood red and horrible. Shielding his face, Dujahn struggled to see through the glow, and then he saw the Sleepwalker move. Gripping his medallion, he stepped through a tear in the lightning and was gone.
“Interesting,” Miestri murmured.
The crimson hue vanished as she tucked the orb back within the folds of her robes. The magic fire and lightning disappeared, swallowed by the sphere. Dujahn turned to her. She laughed softly at him. All of his training, all the diplomacy and composure he was taught was rendered mute by the Sorian. He gaped at her, seeing the orange light still flickering in her eyes.
“Did you drop your voice in a well?” she asked.
He nodded foolishly. She had reached into the past, twisted her fingers around it, and yanked it back to watch it again. It horrified him. “Who…who was that?”
“Only a Sleepwalker,” she replied.
“And the others? Who were they?”
“One is a Knight of the Blade,” she murmured. “The woodsman is from the Riven Wood.”
“How do you know?”
She shook her head waved her finger. “Never doubt what I speak. Just believe. I’ve been in this valley for a long, long time.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“The Shae,” she mused, rubbing her lip. “You saw them, didn’t you?” She stared past the wooden picket lines, oblivious to the masses of frightened soldiers watching her.
“You know them?” Dujahn demanded.
“One of them, yes. But I did not think he would return so quickly.”
Dujahn looked at her, c
onfused. “The one who tried to hurt you?”
“Hurt me?” She laughed. “Really, Dujahn, you have no imagination at all. He cannot hurt me, for he is mine.”
“Then who was the other Shae?” he blurted out.
“Obviously the key to the lock,” she answered. “And I thought it would be Silverborne’s little one. Oh, this is getting very interesting indeed. If only General Dairron were here to enjoy it, too. Come, Dujahn. We have work to do.”
* * *
Dujahn coughed as he parted the tent flap. The room was full of officers wearing the black and gold of the Rebellion. He saw animosity on their faces, but he didn’t care. The Sorian gave him authority. They might glare and they might posture, but her threat was enough to keep their swords in their sheaths. “Excuse me, Colonel Hallstoy – the Lady of Vale would like to see you. She has your orders.”
Hallstoy looked at the officers surrounding him. Anger sparked and flashed in his eyes. Dispatch papers were littered on the only desk in the room and stacked in a heap on the floor. He had rosters and reports to prepare – knowing that his head was in jeopardy if he didn’t come up with explanations and answers for Ballinaire. “Get out.”
Dujahn stepped inside confidently. “Do we have to go through this again?”
The Colonel turned on Dujahn, his face red. “I don’t like repeating myself, Dujahn! You tell Dairron’s witch that I’ll take no orders from her. I lead this camp when Tsyrke is gone. And if she doesn’t like it, she can eat a warm bowl of trope!”
“Indeed,” Miestri said, slipping through the tent flaps behind Dujahn. A chill went through the tent. “Do let it be horse trope, Colonel. Cow trope wouldn’t fit in a bowl.”
Hallstoy’s eyes widened with shock. Scratching his balding scalp, Hallstoy spit on the floor and narrowed his gaze at her. “You have no authority in this camp, Miestri,” he said. “Tsyrke is on his way, and Mage with him. This is my command tent....”
Miestri lowered her cowl and her raven hair spilled out.
Hallstoy frowned, seeing her ivory smile. “Get out,” he hissed. “Take your banned magic and get out of my tent. We’ve just been under attack, and I don’t have time to be wasting on your whims, I don’t care...”
“My, we are brave,” Miestri said as she raised her fingers and closed them together. Hallstoy’s voice trailed off into a squeak and his eyes glazed over with fear. He might talk and bluster, but she was in control – even over his voice. Dujahn shivered. She stared into Hallstoy’s bloodshot eyes and flashed a wicked smile. A current of magic trembled in the air, and Dujahn stepped to the side. The other officers backed away from Hallstoy.
Hallstoy’s face started to twitch. A look of horror and pain twisted his expression, but he couldn’t speak. His hands flew to his face as rips and tears began splitting across his scalp and cheeks. Choking with agony, Hallstoy fled the tent, trying to keep the skin on his face. Several of the officers coughed, nearly gagging with disgust. No one stepped in to confront her.
“Officers,” Miestri said gently, spreading out her hands. “You disappoint me. It only took seven to make you all into fools.” Her mouth flashed a dangerous smile. There was something in the air, a tingling feeling that spread as she spoke. “Lord Ballinaire will be furious when the dispatch reaches him. Commander Phollen will be equally outraged. How could you let seven Inlanders humiliate you? These were Iniven farmers and Shaden with pruning hooks and straw arrows who defied the armies of the Rebellion!”
Dujahn swallowed, not daring to let the surprise show on his face. He watched the colonels cringe and twist with rage and anger. He stared at her in awe at how she used her powers to manipulate them.
“Could you not hear them laughing at you as they walked through your watch fires and posts? They were laughing at you!”
“There was a Sleepwalker…” one of them mumbled.
“Shut up, you fool!” another snapped, cutting him off.
“The greater disgrace,” she hissed, her eyes glittering with feeling, “Is that you were taken so easily. Like children caught napping. I’ve seen General Dairron’s brigade. I tell you that they would not have been surprised so easily.” She shook her head, making her dark hair flutter. “If Commander Phollen were here, do you know what he would do? Do you know what Kiran Phollen would have done?”
As her voice rose in pitch, the tension in the room increased. Her magic swept through them, her voice instigating it, drawing in the soldiers like candles eating light from a single flame.
She sneered at them. “I remember the days of Kiran Phollen. His courage was fierce and his cunning quick. He’d repay this insult a thousand fold. He’d be a scourge to Dos-Aralon. How long has it been since Lord Ballinaire commanded us to be at war? How long will you stand here, begging for a leader who will act? If Commander Phollen were here, he would strike don Rion in the belly and twist his knife deeper.”
There were grumblings of assent.
“You are not dogs tied to a stake,” she said, her beauty and magic stealing into their eyes and hearts, razing the memory of Hallstoy or any obedience owed him. “No master stands over you with a stick. Rise and bite! The village to the north is weak. Destroy it! Landmoor is unprotected. Take it! If you are men of courage, then show it! If I were a general, I would not let this mockery go unpunished.”
“What should we do, my Lady?” Colonel Davys shouted. Dujahn looked at him. He was taken with her. It showed on his face. He would have done anything for her.
“War,” she declared. “Let it begin. Your soldiers are not sleepy — why make them rest? March tonight – this instant! Send the horses of the Kiran Thall to scourge and the soldiers to reinforce. Landmoor – she is ours!”
The Bandit officers started drawing up the new orders, their faces livid. They were barking out orders, calling on duty rosters. The Kiran Thall would go first, followed by the first ranks of soldiers. They wouldn’t wait for dawn.
Dujahn watched the small smile twitch on her mouth.
* * *
Dujahn didn’t like the Kiran Thall leader the moment he saw him. This one swaggered like a man with too much to drink, and by the mutton on his breath, he hadn’t drunk in a while. The man’s resemblance to his brother was tell-tale. Both Phollens had a dark brooding expression, but this one had a half-snarl on his mouth as well. Tsyrke Phollen was a head taller, though, and wore his grandfather’s tattered red cape. Secrist Phollen was trim and lanky. But his eyes were desperate. Living in a brother’s shadow could be a consuming itch.
Dawn crept into the Shadows Wood, showing a camp that was in the final stages of deployment. Most of the command pavilions were down and the wagon wheels churned the mud and manure into thick dark cakes.
“You ruined Hallstoy, Miestri,” Secrist spat, pointing in the direction of the woods. “I don’t think even a Zerite could heal that face. No man will ever follow him again. Not remembering him like that. Tsyrke’s gonna be in a Fury when he sees what you’re doing to his army...”
Miestri gave him a contented smile. “You do not have time to worry about him, Secrist. You have other matters that need your attention. There were two Shae involved in the attack on the camp. They are heading to Landmoor. You must stop them.”
The Kiran Thall halted, his eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”
“Because I know what they are after.”
“The Everoot?”
She shook her head. “What they seek is in the city itself. Ballinaire has enough strength to protect the Everoot. And while this army is stumbling blindly in this swamp, the two Shae are hurrying south alone.”
“If you did not already know this, you should,” Secrist announced. “They have one of the best banned trackers in the valley with them. One of the wounded men saw him – swears it’s Allavin Devers. Haven’t had any luck hunting his band down yet.”
She nodded. “Yes, but the Shae are no longer with him or the knight. They went by themselves.”
“How do you know?”
“I know a great many things, Secrist Phollen. They are going to the tunnels beneath the city. They will enter through the shrine ruins. Down in the tunnels, there is a twisting maze at an archway supported by two stone gryphons. They must not enter that maze.”
Secrist gave her a narrow look. “I could be killed for serving you.”
The Sorian smiled knowingly. “But with this, you won’t die,” she replied, holding out her hand. A batch of the green moss quivered there. Dujahn watched the reaction on Secrist’s face. He stared at it desperately, a look of hunger so raw on his face that it was painful to watch.
The Kiran Thall wiped his mouth. His hand was trembling. “What do you want me to do?”
“One Shae is a Warder. He will deliver the other into your hands.”
Secrist smirked. “How convenient.”
Miestri nodded. “He has a weapon you desire, I think.”
Secrist frowned and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “What do you want me to do with him? Bring him back to you?”
“Kill him.”
Secrist smiled. “What about the Sleepwalker?” He nodded to the Everoot. “If I have to face another one, I’ll need more of that.”
Miestri shook her head and reached into the folds of her robes. She withdrew a dagger with a copper hilt. A piece of leather wound around the grip. The blade was not any metal that Dujahn had ever seen. It had a grainy texture that looked like black sand. Had she poisoned it?
Miestri passed the dagger to Secrist, who studied the blade in the lamplight. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Deathbane,” she answered and watched the Kiran Thall grip it, mesmerized by the blade’s dark texture. “If the blade so much as glances the skin – even a Sleepwalker would die. And no amount of Everoot will bring him back. Now go, Secrist. Use it against the Shae. Nothing can stop you.”
A dark smirk crossed Secrist’s face as her magic wove through him. He couldn’t take his eyes from the dagger. “Where will you be after I’ve killed the Shaden?”