In a flurry of motion, several burlap sacks flipped out of the back of the wagon and hurtled with unnatural speed from the light into the surrounding trees.
“Gnomes.” Mirsa unleashed a torrent of flames skyward before regaining her poise. “The wagon was in the way,” she said, justifying her outburst.
Bertus climbed into the wagon and surveyed the loss. “They only took food,” he called down to Mirsa. “But they took it all.”
The Master Mage set aside her staff, and relaxed as the urge to use the power within it subsided. She reached up and took the bag that Bertus handed down to her, and unwrapped the book within, taking great care to avoid damaging the ancient text. “It’s unharmed,” she said after looking over it for a few moments.
“Kevon’s fancy hammer-thing is all right, too,” Bertus called down, pulling the weapon free of its fastenings and brandishing it indelicately.
“The food…”
“We’ll be fine,” Bertus assured her. “There’s plenty of game, and we’re close to our destination anyway.” The Seeker returned the weapon to its place, and snugged their remaining belongings closer together, lashing them down with leather ties. “It’s not as if I couldn’t afford to miss a few meals, either.”
Mirsa frowned. Her familiarity with the Earth-aligned creatures was minimal. She’d read volumes on the creatures of the sea, but the libraries she’d frequented had little to do with the Dwarves and Gnomes. “And what should happen if they come for food, and we have none?” she wondered aloud.
Bertus shook his head. “We’ll press on, and reach the Hold in five days,” he decided. “I can make it five days. Besides…” he grinned in the eerie shadows of the remaining magelight, “If the Dwarves aren’t friendly, it won’t matter how rested I am.”
Chapter 31
The room swam into view as the pain in Kevon’s side sharpened. He struggled with the bonds holding his wrists to the back of the chair he sat in before realizing they were forged iron clamps, unlike the ropes that held his legs to the chair. He grimaced at the taste of the gag, but was relieved the blindfold was pushed up onto his forehead so that he could examine his surroundings.
Kevon ran his thumb between the slats of the chair, feeling the dressing and binding on the wound in the back of his right side. He experimented, breathing deeper until the agony threatened to return him to the peaceful darkness he’d only recently emerged from. While the pain was considerable, it was less than he expected from what little of the attack he could remember. Healing potion, he thought, wondering why his attackers would go to so much trouble to keep him alive.
Who are they? What do they want? Questions flooded a mind already filled with dull runes that could have freed him from his bonds, had they not been made of iron. Unable to voice his queries, he set about trying to learn as much as he could by viewing his makeshift prison.
The room was smallish, and not the sort of place Kevon would imagine one would normally leave a bound and gagged prisoner. Next to him was a neatly made cot, overhung by several small paintings. An array of knives and a short sword lay on the table by the head of the bed, not more than six feet from where Kevon sat. Opposite the cot, to his left, was a table with a pitcher and washbasin. Beyond that was the side of a wooden cabinet that could have been a wardrobe. The left wall held more weapons. Throwing knives and crossbows hung from pegs above a bin of bolts only served to make the dainty writing desk next to the arsenal look even more out of place.
He tested the slack in the ropes around his legs, wondering if he could shuffle his way to the weapons, or move from the corner into the center of the room to try and break the chair apart and free himself.
The door opened, and one of his attackers from outside the inn entered. Seeing him awake, the brigand drew his sword and smiled.
The hooded figure that entered just behind him touched his arm, and murmured something too low for Kevon to hear. The swordsman grunted in disgust, and stormed past the newcomer, who closed the door behind him. Kevon’s captor turned, and looked up to meet his stare.
Strands of blonde hair escaped from the hood, framing a somber gaze. A patch covered her left eye, and a crescent scar rode low on her right cheek. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but trembled for a moment.
“Are you a Mage?” she whispered, in the venomous voice that had preceded his near mortal wound.
So it comes down to this. Kevon’s heart sank. All the running. All the hiding. To wind up being blindsided by a thug with a grudge… He did not move, only waited, eyes defiant in the absence of words.
His captor pulled back her hood, and sighed. She started toward him. Through his pounding headache, the thought that there was something he should remember, but he could not grasp that particular memory. “I’m going to release you,” she said, moving in close and shifting around to his side to access the iron clamps. “Don’t hurt me.” Her lips brushed the edge of his ear as she spoke.
Kevon’s mind recoiled. He gasped, choking on the gag, and turned toward her. Recognition dawned and new questions pushed older ones out of the way. The curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, he could see it now, undistracted by other details. His freed hand shot up to tear the gag away. “Marelle!”
“Shh…” she cautioned, nuzzling his neck as she worked at the other clamp. “It’s Alanna now.”
“But how?” Kevon pushed, wanting to understand. “I heard that you were…”
“Marelle is dead!” she whispered, loosing his other wrist, and pushing back to stand and look down at him. “She was weak. Always afraid of assassins and Magi.” A slight chuckle escaped her lips. “Alanna leads assassins, and kills Mages.”
Kevon shook his leg free of the last remaining restraint, and looked up into Marelle’s face. Dread and attraction tore at his very being. He’d come here to avenge her death, and was unsure if she would even spare him if he told her the truth about his abilities.
“Your father? Your plans?” he asked her, stalling while he tried to decide what truth to tell her.
“Another time,” Marelle , or rather, Alanna , snapped. “I have to decide what to tell the men who have been watching over you for the last few days. What’s most likely to keep them from killing you, preferably.”
Kevon rose and took Alanna by the shoulders. “I am a Mage,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know before. Things were… complicated.”
* * *
Pain intruded on the void, goading Kevon to wakefulness. He found himself back in the chair, shackled once again. His head pounded, and his neck and throat hurt as never before. He groaned, and Alanna moved back into his field of vision.
“I’ll tell the others what I plan to do with you as soon as I decide,” she chuckled. “Things are… Complicated.”
Chapter 32
The horn echoing down the canyon road prodded Bertus to full alert. He handed the reins to Mirsa, and readied his crossbow.
The Mage let the team slow, flicking the reins only when they dropped below half the speed they had been traveling at. She scanned the canyon walls, and continued to marvel at the structure of magic in the area.
This was not a near impenetrable murk, as the elements had been bound with beneath, and around Gurlin’s tower. Earth magic surrounded them, more evident and plentiful than she had ever felt. But not only was the power not crushing in on her, she could not use it at all. It was as if the magic was distilled into bricks of pure energy and stacked all around, behind thick panes of glass. She had used Earth magic since coming closer to the mountains. It was in no way hindered, and in fact was easy to use since the surrounding power’s rune was constantly in her mind. But there was not even a hint of sympathetic energy flowing back to use for the spell, and as such, she’d ended it promptly.
“Ho there!” Bertus called, waving to the Dwarf that edged out from behind a rock about fifty yards up the canyon. He shot Mirsa a glance, and she slowed the team even further. He set the crossbow behind him in the wagon, and turned
back to appraise the curious being.
The Dwarf carried a crossbow that was twice as large as Bertus’s in nearly every dimension, and undoubtedly better made. The weapon was nearly as long as the Dwarf was tall, but he carried it with an easy grace in one hand beside him, ready to use at a moment’s notice. The handle of a long axe stuck out above his back, and he was garbed in stout looking ring mail.
“What business have ye at the Hold?” he challenged, and Mirsa drew the reins back to halt the wagon perhaps thirty yards from the sentry.
“We seek the counsel of your scholars,” Mirsa called.
“We intend you no harm,” Bertus added.
The sentry guffawed, nearly dropping his bow in the process. “Ye promise not te harm us?”
Bertus looked around at the half dozen crossbows trained on himself and Mirsa from concealed battlements in the valley walls above. He smiled. “We promise.”
“It’d take more than a Wizard and a whelp te make trouble here, fer sure.” The sentry gestured with his crossbow. “Follow me in.”
Around the next turn in the canyon, the entrance to the Hold came into view. Large stone double doors lay beyond a trio of rock slabs that lay jumbled across the path. Bertus guided the team to the highest clearance of each of the obstacles. He and Mirsa had to duck to make it under the last one, and glancing backward the Seeker noticed the walkway cut into the second stone slab they had passed under, also manned by crossbow-wielding Dwarves. He reached up and ran a hand along the spiral ridge of the stone above him. His eyes traced a path upward, following gouges up the canyon wall to the broken formations above, and the one remaining spire that was still intact.
Mirsa observed their surroundings with other senses, and felt the doors ahead beginning to open before the rumble reached their ears. Sections of the pent-up magic surrounding them twitched in her mind, and her inability to grasp the mechanism of the energy release grated her ego more than the sound that assailed her ears.
“Wait here,” their guide ordered, not waiting to see if his guests were going to comply before turning to march down a hallway from the antechamber, deeper into the mountain.
“Ye can come down, if ye please,” another Dwarf suggested as soon as the rumbling of the closing doors ceased. He offered a leather-gloved hand to Mirsa.
The Master Mage pulled back her cloak’s hood and smiled as she took his hand and his help stepping to the marble floor below. “A most agreeable welcome,” she commented, turning to take in the magnificence of the chamber surrounding them. Small iron baskets bolted to the walls held stones that glowed brightly with a slight green cast, and the ceiling was dotted with crystal formations that both diffused light around the room, and sent shafts of brilliant light to the glowing stones, or near to them.
“Yer animals will be taken care of,” the Dwarf assisting Mirsa assured them. “We’ve sent fer fodder. Our stables are rarely used.”
“One moment,” Bertus cautioned. He unstrapped some of the supplies in the back of the wagon, and handed the bundle with the book down to Mirsa before sliding Kevon’s Dwarven axe from under its cover. He shouldered the weapon, and hopped down lightly to the floor.
The two handlers that had come to take the wagon and team stood speechless, gaping at Bertus as he slung the axe into a loop on his belt. “Get… Get ye to the stables!” stammered the other Dwarf. As soon as the wagon was almost out of sight, their new companion ventured a question. “And just what right have ye to wear that axe?”
“I’m a Hero of the Western Vale,” Bertus replied, doing his best to appear bored. “Am I to be questioned about the rest of my equipment as well, then? This is a sword of ancient kings,” The Seeker lifted the weapon a few inches in its scabbard and let it fall back into place. “The shirt, I bought in Navlia.”
“We are honored to have such a young Hero among us,” the Dwarf said, bowing to Bertus.
“Heroes,” the Warrior corrected, gesturing to Mirsa. “Master Mirsa, Advisor to Alacrit du Kærtis, and slayer of Orclords.”
Their Dwarven companion sputtered in surprise, missing the withering glance Mirsa shot at Bertus. “And yer name?” he asked, a hint of reverence creeping into his voice.
“Just Bertus,” the Seeker shrugged.
“Bertus the Bold, I name ye,” the Dwarf retorted. “I’m called Kylgren-Wode. I’m what passes fer an Ambassador around here, not that we’ve had need fer one since I got the job.” Kylgren grinned. “Let’s make sure we do this good and proper, take our time. As long as yer here, I’m not hauling trash or water fer no one!”
“How does one become an Ambassador, Kylgren?” Mirsa inquired.
“Speak Common,” the Dwarf grunted, “And be awful at everthing else.”
Bertus laughed. “I’m sure we can make your next few days interesting enough.”
“After all, there are the proper formalities to be observed,” Mirsa added.
“Proper formalities…” Kylgren-Wode scratched his beard, then looked to Mirsa, who shrugged, a coy smile turning the corner of her mouth.
Understanding washed over the Ambassador’s face, and he stifled a laugh as the sentry reentered from the hall.
“The King will see them now!” the sentry announced, gesturing back down the passage he had emerged from.
“The King will wait,” Kylgren said, waving his kinsman off with a smirk. “There be formalities that need observing fer Heroes such as these. Make ready chambers, beds, hot baths, refreshments.” When the sentry’s expression changed from one of surety of command to mild confusion, Kylgren-Wode jabbed a stubby finger in his direction. “What are ye waiting fer?” he shouted. “My apologies yer graces,” he said, turning to take Mirsa’s gloved hand in his own and kiss it. “Some of my brothers have no manners.” The Ambassador winked before turning to glare at the bewildered sentry. “Now!” he yelled.
The sentry turned and fled back down the hallway.
Kylgren-Wode straightened up, and smoothed out his beard deliberately. “I think I’m going te like this.”
Chapter 33
“I told them you were an old lover I was teaching a lesson,” Alanna chuckled as she slipped the last shackle free of Kevon’s wrist. “It’s not the whole truth, but they’ll accept it.” She smiled, the familiar look of mischief in her eye reminding Kevon of the times they’d spent before she had been Alanna.
The still-tender bruise on the side of his head was elegant proof of just how much had changed since the last time they’d been together. Aside from a misunderstanding with a crossbow, he’d never seen her harm anyone. She’d only raised her voice a handful of times in all of their travels before.
“How could this happen?” he asked, standing and rubbing his wrists. He touched the bruise at his temple and winced.
“I kill Mages,” Alanna shrugged. “And I needed a little more time to think about it.”
“Not that,” Kevon shook his head. “All of this? What happened to you? Your father?”
“I have no time for this,” she snapped, turning toward the door. “More Magi have been gathering here, so I have work to do.”
“Wait, more?” Kevon reached for Alanna’s shoulder, but stopped short.
“The few who were here fell quickly,” she answered, abandoning her withdrawal, turning to sit at the writing desk near the doorway. “Perfect practice for a fledgling assassin. Two or three others arrived in the season that followed, more prepared. By the time I’d finished… ‘reorganizing’ the Merchant’s Guild, and cleansing the streets of common thieves, they were the perfect targets to solidify my control here.” She frowned. “The first Magi to be seen in Eastport in over half a year were spotted two weeks ago. They didn’t come in through the gates, or my informants would have known. They’ve been running in groups of three or more, being very careful. You…” Alanna laughed. “You were the first one stupid enough to ride into town alone.”
“They’re here for me,” Kevon thought aloud.
“Well then,” Alanna
purred, her eye narrowing as she stood to close the distance to Kevon, “I’m even more pleased that we didn’t kill you. I knew you had one or two Magi out to get you… Why the army?”
Kevon remained silent, unsure how much he wanted to tell Alanna.
“Oh…” Alanna’s expression softened, and she moved in, resting a hand on his chest, burying her face in his neck. “You’d tell Marelle, wouldn’t you?” she whispered.
“You said yourself she was dead,” Kevon countered. “I came here to avenge her death, not to be used by something wearing her face.”
“They did tell everyone I was dead,” Alanna giggled, pushing away from Kevon and fidgeting for a moment. “The Merchant’s Guild. They couldn’t have seized Father’s assets, and mine, if I was still alive.” She sniffed. “You wonder what would happen if you went home. I’ve stared down the length of a loaded crossbow and been told what would happen.”
“They knew?”
“Four weeks from the time we left, I crawled back to my doorstep, filthy, bleeding, starving. My Father’s steward saw a chance to take my birthright for his own gain, and turned me away. He’s dead, but there are always more greedy profiteers to step into such a void.” Alanna shrugged. “Mages and thieves are more of a problem, only not as common.”
Kevon stared at the harsh expression on the woman’s face before him. Death has followed me on my travels, reared its head in spectacular fashion on occasion. But it has taken her as its lover. The thought chilled him, made him want to reach out to her, and crushed, all at once, the hopes that had glimmered through the pain and confusion since he had realized she was still alive. He had mentally outlined the actions he would have been willing to take to punish anyone who had been involved in her death, but now only chaos remained in the space his devotion had occupied for so long. He was not completely sure what role she played in the shady underbelly of the city, and what was bluster or overconfidence. The others he had seen her with had been deferential, at least. Will I be able to save her from this, from herself? What about Bertus and Mirsa? Are other Magi tracking them by now? Will Alanna’s followers attack them as they did me, should they return here?
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