“How does it work anyway?” he asked her, studying it from the corner of his eye.
She shrugged. “Magic, I guess. All I have to do is hold the amulet and summon the wolves with my mind. My will dominates theirs, so they come when I call and do as I please.”
He pondered her answer for a few minutes, and then asked, “Can anyone channel wolves using your amulet, or does it only work for you?”
“Only those gifted in magic can use it,” she said. “Only I can summon my own spirit animal.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” said Mongrel. “I think the magic’s all in the amulet, so really anyone with the slightest aptitude could use it to call your wolves.”
He winced at the look she gave him.
“Do you mean to take it from me? To take my wolves for your own?”
“Nah.” He shrugged. “I’m not gifted in magic. Besides, I don’t need magic to convince these wolves to do what I want. They’re my family, and family does for one another without magical influence.”
“They are my spirit animals,” she said. “They are more to me than family. They are the physical embodiment of my soul.”
“That so?” Mongrel quirked his brow.
“Yes.”
“All right,” he said. “Then release them from your enchantment. Go on. If your bond is as strong as you say, then lifting a spell shouldn’t break it. They’ll stay right here by your side.”
Tikaani glanced at the wolves and then at Mongrel. With a heavy sigh, she released her amulet and the hold she had on them. Instantly, they took off into the woods, Old Boy leading the way.
“Come back!” she called to them, hand reaching for her amulet. Mongrel slapped it away.
“Give them a break, would you?” he said. “They’re only going for a short hunt. They’re starving. You’ve not given them a chance to eat, sleep, or piss since you took hold of them yesterday. As their spiritual guide, or whatever, you owe them more than that.”
Shamefaced, Tikaani blubbered, “I didn’t mean to mistreat them. I only wanted their protection.”
“And you got it,” said Mongrel, impatiently. “Now you owe them a break.”
“I’m sorry, Mequssuk.” She whimpered, on the verge of tears.
He knelt down so he was at her level.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean them any harm, but you’ve got to understand that magic is serious business with real consequences. And you shouldn’t abuse it like that. Someone could get hurt. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He stood, took her hand, and led her onward. “Chin up. I’ve spotted some tracks. Looks like we’re catching up with your tribesmen.”
“Where are they headed?”
“It looks to me like they’re heading toward the mountains.”
“The mountains?” Gwyn gave Aerin a puzzled look when she reported back from her scouting mission. “Are you sure? That’s a far way off.”
“I’m sure of it,” she said. “Their tracks headed north.”
“Then we’ll need to make haste if we’re to catch them.” Gywn set his gaze on Laerilas, who was healing his arm, and cleared his throat.
It took everything out of Laerilas not to get up and walk away. After hours of nonstop healing, he would have expected Gwyn to show more appreciation, at least more patience considering the severity of the wound. The task was made all the more difficult by their talking.
“It would help if you’d rest,” Laerilas told him between clenched teeth. “You are wasting your energy . . . and mine.”
“I will rest when that Mongrel’s head is impaled on a tree branch,” Gwyn said but remained lying down. Laerilas resumed his work, which was easier now that Gwyn was still.
Meanwhile, Aerin watched the process with growing interest. “What are you doing, peasant?” she asked him, narrowing her eyes. She could have knelt down to see, but that would involve her lowering herself to Laerilas’ level, and he would be sore to see her stoop to such a low. If anyone despised him more than Gwyn it was Aerin, the former second in command.
“I’m healing the wound,” he answered her simply.
She frowned. “How?”
“With medicinal herbs, naturally.”
“There is nothing natural about it.” She scowled, coming around to get a better look. “The herbs alone would be useless for healing such a wound without magic.”
“If you say so,” he said, panting with the effort of sealing such a large wound. An amputation wasn't easy to heal. There was so much to repair, and he was in constant need of fresh plants as he was draining the healing properties out of them faster than they could be replenished. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. At last, the wound was almost sealed. But it had taken its toll on him. He felt more drained than the limp leaves he’d discarded on the ground. He doubted Gwyn would allow him much time to rest and regain his strength, especially since he himself had not rested since his injury. Rather than rest, Gwyn had sent out scouts in search of the one who’d wronged him and talked nonstop of what he’d do when he caught him.
“. . . And feed it to his wolves,” Gwyn finished what had been a long and descriptive rant. As though Laerilas wasn’t nauseous enough trying to heal his mangled arm without Gwyn going on about beheadings and dismemberment.
“They say magic resides in nature,” Aerin continued after a brief pause. “It’s in the trees, the animals . . . in ourselves. That leaf you’re using holds a vast amount of healing power.”
“It does.”
“Though I doubt it alone has the power to heal a wound such as that,” she said, staring at him. “It requires much energy from you. I can see the task weakens you while he gains in strength.”
“Obviously.”
“So I wonder, could it be done in reverse?”
Laerilas dared himself to look her in the eyes. So unnerving in their intensity. “What you speak of is blood magic, and in case you forgot, it’s forbidden.”
“Are you such a coward that you cannot even speak of something that is dangerous?” She shook her head. “I still cannot see how a weakling such as you found his way into the king’s guard.”
“I still cannot see how you continue to misplace your anger,” he shot back. “I did not ask for it, not for any of this.”
“You expect me to believe that you, a low class peasant, didn’t want to rise above your humble beginnings?” She smirked. “And more so, you expect me to believe that you, a man, did not want the favor of a beautiful young princess?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are not only a coward but also a fool.” She spun on her heel, hair whipping him in the face, before strutting off as gracefully as one could in knee-high leather boots. Her hair trailed to her ankles. So beautiful, Laerilas thought, jealously eyeing the gentle curl at the tip of her hair—but so dangerous. He vowed to never again let his guard down around her.
When Aerin was at a comfortable distance, he turned his attention back to the wound and finished the job without further distraction. Then he lay down for some much needed rest, only for Gwyn to wake him seconds later.
“Why are you lying there like a dead plant? Your job is not done.”
“What do you mean?” Laerilas asked him. “Your arm is healed.”
“Healed?” Gwyn gestured to the stump. “There is no arm there.”
“Of course there isn’t,” he said. “It was hacked off. I healed it. You’re welcome.”
“Useless,” Gwyn hissed, storming off. He returned minutes later with his remaining guardsmen. He tapped his foot impatiently while Laerilas stood and shuffled into his spot behind him.
Renewed by Laerilas’ strength, Gwyn drove them onward in pursuit of Mongrel’s tracks. Laerilas only hoped for his own sake that Mongrel hadn’t gone far.
“Mountains. They had to take to the mountains,” Tikaani griped as they made their ascent up a steep path littered with pebbles and fallen rocks. What
little trail could be found was treacherous. Their pace grew slower.
Mongrel led the way, continuing despite her complaints, until he came to a pile of fallen rocks. Ever determined, he climbed to the top of the pile and then hoisted her up by one arm. The path continued on the other side, but it was narrower than before. Together they sidled along it, keeping their backs to the mountain’s face. Tikaani gasped when loose chunks of dirt and rocks clattered down the mountainside just below her feet.
Mongrel continued on, unfazed, though the wind pulled his hair and tugged at his clothing, determined to bring him down.
“You look quite at home up here,” she commented after some time. “Are you sure you were not raised by mountain goats?” She cried out as more land slid out from underfoot. Mongrel reached back and took her gently by the arm, pulling her up. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Actually, it’s the dwarf in me,” he said, chuckling. “It might interest you to know that dwarves are actually quite graceful in their natural habitat. Steep paths and narrow tunnels are dance halls to them. It’s flat open spaces they don’t take to, and never ask a dwarf to swim. They won’t touch water. They hardly go near it even to bathe. They’re like rocks in water.”
“They sink?”
“They get wet,” he said. “But that too.”
Tikaani managed a nervous laugh.
“So where did you get your sense of humor, anyway?” she asked him, chewing her bottom lip as they rounded a sharp edge. “Surely not from the elves.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, and she frowned.
“If they’re all like the ones that attacked us, I doubt it.”
“They’re not all so bad,” said Mongrel, though he could not think of one for an example. Even Laerilas was behaving just as poorly as the others. If anything, he was worse, wanting to kill Mongrel over a bad haircut. He shrugged. “You’d just have to get to know them.”
“Well, here’s my chance.” Tikaani pointed toward the approaching group. “But I don’t think they’ve come to make friendly conversation.”
Sure enough, the elves were coming their way, bows drawn and ready to fire.
“Agreed. Come on!” Mongrel grabbed Tikaani’s arm and pulled her along. She panted behind him as she struggled to keep up.
“Slow down!”
“What’s wrong? Are you afraid of heights?” He thought it a bit late to be asking her this, especially now as they came to a dead end. The path continued on the other side of a fifty foot drop.
“I’m afraid of nothing,” she said, but her eyes grew large as she took in the distance between their ledge and the next. Was there anything this girl didn't fear?
“That’s too bad, because we’re going to have to jump across,” he said.
“No-no-no-no-no.” She broke free of his grip and retreated to the side of the mountain. “I won’t do it. I’d rather face the elves.”
“You’d have better luck making the jump,” he said. “At least that way you might survive.”
Tikaani pressed her back to mountainside and shook her head.
“Come on.” He offered her an encouraging smile as well as his hand. “If you’re going to go down, wouldn’t you rather go down trying?”
“I’d rather not go down,” she cried.
“Not an option,” he said, and before she could respond, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to the ledge. Below, the river ran swiftly. He wondered if the water would cushion their fall. A log careering down the river’s current suddenly smashed into a boulder. He only hoped Tikaani hadn’t seen it.
Her face, pale and tight, told him she had.
“Are you ready?” he asked her, positioning himself to jump.
Tikaani’s legs wobbled. “No.” Then an arrow passed over her head. Another ricocheted by her feet. She clutched Mongrel’s hand. “Now I’m ready!”
Before she could change her mind again, they jumped from the ledge toward the other side. But the ledge was a little farther than Mongrel had anticipated, and without a running start, there was no way they could make it across. Mongrel realized this as they hung in midair right before they began the long drop toward the rushing waters below. In one desperate reach, Mongrel caught hold of a plant root protruding from the mountainside. It stopped their fall, but he could feel it coming loose.
“Hold on, Tikaani,” he told the screaming girl flailing from his left hand. Grimacing, he pulled her up and coaxed her onto his back. She wrapped her arms around his neck so tight he couldn’t breathe, and her legs encircled his waist like a constrictor. At least now his other hand was free to reach for something sturdy to grab hold of. The trouble was finding something sturdy.
The root tore out of the earth, and before he could find another hold, they were dropping again. Then his hand caught something elastic but firm. It took him a minute to realize it was a hand, and not just any hand, a dwarvish one. He looked up at a familiar face and smiled.
“Littlehammer.”
Pull him up or let him fall? Littlehammer debated this as she held him over the side of the mountain. And what was he doing traveling the face of the mountain when the belly was so much safer? Tunnels like intestines made surer paths and always took one where they intended to go. The skin of the mountain was always shedding and falling apart, making it unreliable and unsafe. And if there’s one thing dwarves mistrusted most, it was inconsistency. Things were best left unchanged. Littlehammer was certain of this now as she looked down on her Mongrel, who was, as far as she was concerned, no better for the time they’d spent apart.
“Sae Ah see ye tried tae jump it,” she said matter-of-factly. “How’d ’at wark fer ye?”
“Not well as you can see,” he said, red-faced. “Would you mind pulling us up?”
“Ah micht,” she said, relishing in the power she had over him. She loosened her grip. “Mebbe Ah shood jist lit ye fall?”
“Come on, Littlehammer!” Mongrel fought to hold onto her slipping grip. “It wasn’t my fault for what happened to Pickaxe, and you know it!”
The nerve of that ungrateful little—it took everything out of her not to let him go.
“Please just pull me up. We can talk about this on solid ground.”
“Spoken like a true dwarf,” she said and pulled them both up onto the ledge. The girl released her hold on Mongrel to heave over the side. Littlehammer glowered at her. “What’s she daein’ wi’ ye?”
“Her name’s Tikaani,” he said, coming to stand between the two. “She’s looking for her family. Maybe you’ve seen them.”
“Ah hae actually. Nae far frae haur. Mah brother is probably takin’ caur ay them as we spick.”
“You’re still fighting? After what happened to Pickaxe—”
“Daen’t ye point th’ blam at me. If it’s nae yer fault, it’s th’ elves whose tae blam.” Littlehammer pointed to the other side of the mountain where the elves were lining up along the edge. “'Spikin ay which.”
The elves drew back on their bowstrings, ready to fire. If nothing else, they were at least smart enough not to attempt the jump. They didn’t need to. Not when arrows could make the distance.
“Ah’ll tak’ caur ay thes,” said Littlehammer, hefting up a giant boulder and throwing it at them. Unlike Mongrel and his companion, the rock made it to the other side and smashed the ledge right under the elves’ feet. Rocks and elves went tumbling down the mountainside to splash into the roaring waters. A smile pulled at her mouth. She had not seen a more pleasant sight, at least not recently.
“Got them!” She clutched her gut and laughed until she noticed one still standing on what was left of the ledge. Somehow he’d managed to avoid the boulder and was now pacing the remnants of the ledge like a furious cougar. “Seems Ah’ve missed one.”
“Littlehammer, no,” Mongrel begged as she reached for another rock. “That’s their leader and the elf king’s son.”
Littlehammer squinted at the elf across the way. From this distance, or any
distance really, they all looked the same to her: fair eyes, fair skin, fair hair—she could only imagine their blood ran fair—that is, if they bled at all. Maybe it was time to find out.
Mongrel grabbed her arm as she raised the rock.
“Don’t do this,” he said, meeting her determined gaze. “Look, he’s wounded. He’s alone. Maybe he’ll talk.”
She looked again. Sure enough, he was missing an arm. Good, she thought. Firing a bow required the use of two arms, so there was no way he could get to them unless he jumped. Apparently, he’d come to the same conclusion, for no sooner had Littlehammer finished the thought than he had launched himself into the air. Even with elven agility, he still wasn’t able to clear the jump and barely caught himself on the ledge. With the use of only one arm, he was having a difficult time trying to pull himself up.
“Stubborn bugger.” Littlehammer snorted, picking up her hammer. “Daen’t worry. Ah’ll tak’ caur ay thes.”
Before Mongrel could stop her, she brought her hammer down upon the elf’s fingers.
Yowling, he released his hold on the mountain and joined his guardsmen in the water.
“Thaur we go. Aw taken caur ay.” Littlehammer put her weapon down and dusted her hands, but not too much, because a thin layer of dust was healthy.
“Why did you do that?” Mongrel gestured to the ant-sized man fighting the current. “You might have killed him.”
“Guid,” she said to Mongrel’s dissatisfaction. She caught his expression and continued, “Whit wood ye hae me dae? Help heem up, doost heem aff, shake his hain, an’ stain thaur like an idiot while he stabs me tae death wi’ his wee sword? I hink nae. Besides, he deserved ’at fer whit he did tae Pick.”
“Vengeance won’t bring Pick back. You know that. Besides, he didn’t die fighting. He died protecting me.”
Tears, hot and blinding, pooled in her eyes. She fought them back down to wherever they came from. A proper dwarf never cried for nothing. “Ur ye wantin’ me tae flin’ ye ower, ‘cause yoo’re beggin’ fer it.”
“Come on, Littlehammer.” He touched her shoulder. “It’s time to move on. You know I’m right.”
The Wizard's Gambit Page 15