Gibron laid the girl's head on a pile of rags. Then he hurried to the door, placed his ear against it, and turned to Tralane.
"I was merely commenting on your new position in life, Tralane. You've gained power, and ruin often follows in the wake of power. Even Keepers pay for their privileges, if they can't learn to maintain the Balance. It is not wise to abuse your place in the center of Being by hurting those who are not your enemies."
"Yes, yes, I'm a heartless knave. Tell me about it tomorrow. Right now, let's get to safety, so you can begin your lessons on morality."
Just then the door opened, sweeping Gibron aside. Rimskiel walked in, talking to a servant.
"When the King's man comes, just show him the way up the attic," he was saying. "There might be some spell work or blood, so leave this room as soon as he goes up, and tell the others to stay away. But don't forget to take the money—"
Rimskiel stopped in mid-stride as he noticed Tralane. He whirled about in time to see Gibron closing the door behind him.
"You?" he cried out indignantly, turning back to Tralane with a look of menace clouding his face. "They sent you to capture the old one? But where are your men, and what are you doing in those clothes?" He reared up to his full height and balled his hands into fists. "Are you trying to cheat me out of my reward for the old one, as well as of my wife?"
Tralane coolly took in the innkeeper's apparent betrayal of Gibron as if he had been expecting it. What disturbed him was his entrapment in a double's identity. A mage like Gibron could understand the subtleties of existence and accept Tralane. Marzen might know him by his dissimilarity to the original she loved. But Rimskiel's hatred was indiscriminate. Reason would not satisfy the innkeeper, and the bard was limited in playing out his role as Detrexan. He was not in the Golden King's service, so he had no gold to offer as reward and buy his way out of the situation. Nor did he fully know the intricacies of the relationships in which he was enmeshed, so he could not play on weaknesses that might otherwise have saved him. Somehow, Tralane had, stripped himself of his identity in coming to Fargouet. He was naked, imprisoned by physical appearances, and caught without the words that would sway Rimskiel.
Gibron broke in, his quavering voice harsh with rage. "You scum," he spat, his eyes and veins standing out. "You would betray me? Can even a simple peasant not be trusted in this world?"
Rimskiel smiled and said, still looking at Tralane, "We are not so simple as you seem to think. We don't live in cities or frequent the court of the Golden King, but we know the value of coins. And we are not so ignorant as to let other men steal our wives."
"Then perhaps you would like to feel what happens when fools play with life, in their delusions of power." Gibron raised his boney arms in preparation for the unleashing of sorcery.
"No!" Tralane shouted. "Remember Sagamourin's searching spells. You'll give us away."
"We've already been betrayed. It's only a matter of time before they, too, arrive."
"But we've still got a chance."
Gibron stopped, his mouth open as if about to speak. Rimskiel glanced back and forth at them. His face was still red with anger, but his motions were confused.
Tralane slipped off his pack and threw it at Rimskiel, then lunged for a meat knife that was lying on the table by the hearth. The servant who had entered the room with Rimskiel went after Tralane, but the bard reached the knife first and flashed it in the servant's face. The servant backed away, but Tralane came after him, brushed aside his outstretched hands, and planted the knife in his throat. Blood spurted out, covering Tralane's face and hands.
A cry pierced through the background noise made up by tavern-goers, but Tralane did not know if it came from the main hall or the room they were in. Blood clouded his perceptions. He looked for Rimskiel and saw him advancing. Tralane stepped back until his back struck the side of the hearth and he could go no further. Rimskiel charged, yelling inarticulately, and Tralane crouched, watching his opponent's arms close in on him like avalanches from two directions.
The heat from the fire scorched the back of his legs, and quickened his mind. He reached into the hearth and pulled out a burning log with his left hand. Gritting his teeth against the pain of the flames that had licked his fingers, Tralane tossed the wood into Rimskiel’s face. The innkeeper stumbled; the twin avalanches of his arms hesitated. Tralane gripped the knife with both hands and lunged once again, this time sending the blade its full length into Rimskiel's stomach.
Rimskiel closed his arms around Tralane as the bard twisted the knife. Warm blood soaked his torso, arms and legs. Life pulsed rhythmically into his hands. For a few moments, the bard and the innkeeper were face to face. They looked at each other, into each other, with nothing but life and death separating them. In the darkness of Rimskiel's eyes, Tralane saw the reflection of his face and gasped in shock. Then Rimskiel collapsed. The strength evaporated from his arms and legs and he fell to the floor, dead.
Tralane leaned back against the side of the hearth, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling to focus his eyes back on the real world. Though he had served with armies and was accustomed to death, he had never killed a man in close combat with his bare hands. The bow was his weapon, the arrow his instrument of death, and a line of stout men-at-arms his armor against retaliation. He avoided looking at Rimskiel's body.
His left hand was burned. Though it was only a minor wound, it was painful enough to prevent him from using his favored weapon. He cursed as he felt blood trickling down his limbs, and remembered the look in Rimskiel's eyes as death had stolen the light from them.
"Who cried out?" he asked with a tremor. "I heard someone cry out …"
"It was you," the mage replied, perplexed. "Are you all right? I thought you had seen action before. I thought you were a warrior, but you're still only a boy."
Gibron clamped a firm hand around Tralane's forearm and led him to the door. He returned the bard's pack to him, then tied the pouch with the Eye around Tralane's neck.
"I only hope nobody comes in to investigate the noise. I should think these people are used to strange happenings in the back rooms."
Once again, Gibron put his ear to the door and listened for nearby revelers. Then he opened the door slightly, glanced through the crack, and motioned for Tralane to follow him. They stepped out into the main hall, where Gibron quietly slipped a cloak off a hook and handed it to Tralane. Marzen saw them through the crowd from her station by the ale kegs, and sliced her way through masses and ushered them into a curtained alcove.
"I tried to go up and warn you," she said in a hurried whisper, looking from one to the other, "but Rimskiel wouldn't let me out of his sight. I only found out last night, after I left you. He plans to betray you. The guards are coming tonight. I'll try to delay them as long as I can—"
She broke off suddenly as she glimpsed the blood covering Tralane's clothes through a part in the cloak. He had already wiped his face and hands clean on the lining.
"Gods," she croaked, "what happened?"
"Your husband is dead," Gibron informed her coldly. "He tried to stop us and Tralane killed him. We must go now. Do whatever you can to slow down pursuit." The mage turned to leave the alcove, still holding on to Tralane.
Marzen stared absently at the curved wall of the alcove, her face a pale blank. "What will I do now?" she asked of no one in particular. "He's dead … how can I run the place myself … they'll have me like a serving maid …"
Tralane, still shaken from his battle, reached out and pulled her after him. "Come with us. You'll be safe. We'll escape."
"Escape? How can I? Can I?"
She followed them out, still in a daze.
The three pushed their way through the tavern crowd, but not so hastily as to attract attention. Somewhere behind them a tray was overturned, and voices were raised in anger. Tralane asserted his remaining strength in helping Gibron lead the way to the tavern door, grateful for the momentary distraction.
Despite their
precautions, a pair of men who had turned at the sound of the tray spilling had taken notice of them and were now following. Eyes flicked uncertainly over the room as people sensed something amiss, but were not quite sure of the source of trouble.
"Speed is everything now," Gibron said as he opened the tavern door and rushed out. Tralane, hunched over in his cloak, did not dare look up. But he saw by the shadows in the street that this world also had two moons and that both of them had risen. The knowledge was small comfort.
They rushed up the street to a stable. Tralane found the owner looking over some thorts for signs of injury and tried to bring him down. They scuffled in a flurry of dust and straw until Gibron grabbed a length of wood and ended the fight with a blow on the proprietor's head. Tralane glanced with surprise at the old man. Gibron's smile was thin.
"You shouldn't let appearance deceive you," he said, discarding his makeshift weapon. "An old mage has had time to learn many disciplines, including those which can draw strength from an aged body."
Tralane was impressed by Gibron's calm. There was strength in Gibron, as there had been in Mathi, but his new-found companion seemed better grounded in the problems and feelings of daily living.
The bard brought out three thorts and saddled them while Marzen and Gibron kept watch. Then they mounted and rode out of the stable towards the edge of town. Marzen glanced furtively behind them and gave a small warning cry. A band of men had just left the tavern and were running towards the stable.
"I fear we've been discovered," she said, her voice wavering in the winds of confusion.
"Then we'd best ride hard," Tralane responded. He took out Wyden's Eye in preparation for the ride through the door between worlds.
Gibron held up his hand and stopped, listening to the night. Marzen and Tralane followed his example. They had reached the outskirts of the town. The buildings were small and makeshift compared to the sturdier frame and stone structures they had just left behind. Ahead of them lay a long, rolling plain of grasslands where, not too far off, could be seen a sleeping herd of Shui illuminated by twin moons. Beyond them, the faint trace of a mountain range outlined against a star-pricked sky could be seen. The great cities and empires of the world lay behind that distant barrier. But between the mountains and the last straggling shanty that could be claimed by the town, on the road that wandered in and out of sight, depending on the roll of the plain, a band of dark shapes was moving.
"The King's warriors," Gibron exclaimed. He bowed his head. "By all the gods and demons, Tralane, if I knew nothing of the arts, I would still say some death-laden curse follows you, throwing your past sins across our path."
Angry shouts rose up behind them. The men from the tavern had discovered the senseless stable owner and were rushing out of the barn. Some ran back to the tavern calling for their friends, while others drew swords and knives and came down the street after Tralane and his escorts. The night breeze carried oaths and threats, and the name of Detrexan.
"We're caught between two swords," Tralane cried out. He reached for his bow, but the pain in his hand reminded him of its uselessness.
Gibron dismounted. "Then it is time to show these worms the meaning of power," he said harshly.
"But your fight will be doomed," Tralane protested. "There's still time. We can take to the fields and use the Eye before the warriors cut us off."
Gibron the Mage looked small and weak beside his thort, and it seemed incredible that he had been able to move and strike with swiftness and strength. The last stroke of betrayal had drained him of his vitality. Pale resignation relaxed the firm lines of purpose on his brow.
"No," Gibron replied. He stripped himself of his garments and stood naked, bathing in the light of the moons and stars. Protruding bones cast angular shadows across his torso. "My fate no longer matters. This will be my last battle. Perhaps it will allow you to escape and pursue your destiny. But I will die. I have been betrayed for the last time. Let the gods, the fates, the movers of the universe do what they may—I have had enough."
Gibron knelt on the dirt road and began to chant in a language that had never been meant for the human throat. Yet Gibron spoke the alien sounds with apparent ease, and Tralane felt the air shiver and tremble with the power of those words.
The bard tried to break through Gibron's concentration, exhorting the mage not to surrender his life. "What do these people matter? Don't let them destroy you … there's still time … yes, there is … you said you'd be my guide … I need a guide, I need someone—"
The broken phrases were lost on Gibron, and the pounding of hoofs and the clatter of armor drowned his words as the Golden King's warriors approached.
They were charging up the road, their mounts panting and snorting. Cloaks flew out behind them, and their armor and weapons glinted coldly in the night's meager light. These were not mere adventurers or mercenaries, but warriors with a stake in the Golden King's empire. They were mortal men who had been sent to flush out a mage, blind to the dangers of the task and eager only for the rewards of advancement in the ranks.
Yet for all their eagerness, they were not the first to reach Tralane and his group. The vanguard of the town mob that was spilling into the streets were already circling the bard, trying to drag him down from his thort. Tralane kicked his mount's flanks and charged into his attackers, but strong hands grabbed his legs and he was quickly brought down. He cursed and flailed out, gouging and kicking at his opponents even as they beat him with clubs, fists, and the flats of their swords. The amulet was struck from his hand. Pain stabbed him in his back, groin, and head. His injured hand throbbed with the racing beat of his heart as some of his assailants tried to pin and tie up his hands and feet. He heard Marzen scream as shadows began to draw over his eyes.
Tralane hovered between the twisted nightmare-reality that had engulfed him and the darkness of dreamless sleep. Slowly, blackness crept into his mind, swallowing his thoughts and his will to survive. Then the earth trembled as if a god's fist was striking it in anger, and people shouted out warnings and abandoned their beating of Tralane. He ceased his convulsive struggles as hands released him. He fought back the encroaching oblivion, remembering the amulet, Marzen, and Gibron. The image of Wyden's Eye burned through his closed eyes; when he opened them he found the amulet to be only a few arm's lengths away. Oblivious to the events occurring around him, he crawled forward until the amulet was firmly in his grasp again. His strength seeped back into his body until he was able to stand. He steadied himself, fighting the pain in his head and eyes, and surveyed the area.
He seemed to be in the quiet heart of a storm. Townsfolk were running towards their homes, pursued by a few warriors yelling taunts and brandishing their swords. Several bodies were strewn on the ground, crushed and battered beyond recognition. The King's warriors had charged the crowd and dispersed them, saving Tralane and his party.
A wave of gratitude towards his saviors broke against the hard shoals of the reality he saw next. Gibron was still kneeling in the middle of the road, but he was not alone. The Golden King's warriors had surrounded him and were nervously circling him. The last sounds of the fleeing townsmen diminished, leaving the night silent except for the groans of some of the wounded and injured and the hesitant steps of fearful kruushkas.
One of the warriors urged his mount forward, and the others watched his approach intently. Some cried out while others contended with their panicking mounts when their comrade was annihilated in an explosive flash of light. A dark, boiling cloud rose and dissipated slowly into the night.
"Get away, he's spell-working,'' one of the warriors shouted. The red and gold plumes emerging from his helm and the tassels on his saddle marked him as the troop's captain. "Let Those-Who-Search come and do our work for us. We'll collect our due for flushing him out."
Tralane opened his mouth to warn Gibron, but stopped as he realized that the mage could no longer hear him. Surrounded by forces of invisible magic, the mage was beyond the reach of mere
mortals. Still, Tralane cautiously approached the mage, hoping to be of some help.
A woman's voice calling his name stopped his advance. He scanned the ground and saw Marzen lying by the road between the town and the warriors. Her head was bloodied and her leg was twisted into an unnatural position. She called to him again, between sobs, and he ran to her.
He knelt beside her and gently felt her injuries. She could no longer walk; indeed, if she survived the night, she would be a cripple for the rest of her life. Escape for her, Tralane realized with a surge of nausea, was impossible.
"Tralane … please, help me…" she croaked.
Tralane was at a loss to comfort her. His own pain and confusion tripped his thoughts and tongue. He could only stroke her face with his useless left hand and look on. "It will be all right in a while," he said lamely.
The sound of a footfall behind him made Tralane whirl around, expecting to see the edge of a sword streaking toward his head. Instead, he saw the captain of the troop standing over him, his sword sheathed. Tralane stared up at the captain's face, seeing something familiar in it, something he had seen and studied before in pools on cool spring days. Then recognition struck him like the sword he had been expecting—the man who stood so close, who was staring with such concern at Marzen and ignoring the bard, was the perfect image of Tralane.
"Marzen," his twin said, crouching beside Tralane and lifting the woman's head. "Gods, but what are you doing here? This wasn't in the plan, you should have stayed in town. Where's Rimskiel? I was hoping to slip in and out of town quietly, but I find a mob and a wizard waiting for me on the road. What happened?"
Marzen did not answer. Her eyes darted back and forth between her lover and Tralane. Her lips twitched, forming soundless words. She moved her head towards Tralane, then sobbed, her face breaking into a mask of pain. Finally, she sank back into the captain's arms.
Tralane stood and backed away a few steps. An eerie silence had descended over the road. The wounded were no longer crying out, and the warriors had dismounted and allowed their kruushkas to maintain a tolerable distance. They were arrayed in a wide circle around Gibron, who had stopped his chanting and was simply rocking back and forth, head down and arms in the air. He was oblivious to the actions of men and had isolated himself in a semi-globe of glowing light. Now was the moment for Tralane to make his escape good, but he could not bring himself to move. He was staring at his twin.
The Bard of Sorcery Page 8