by Terry Brooks
“The old grease-dog. He heard the howling outside his door and opened it just in time to find the Fortrens—or what was left of them—on the ground and you standing there staring into space like you’d lost your mind. He couldn’t get you to talk or respond in any way, so he brought you inside and walked you up to your room and left you there. I came up later and checked you for injuries. You didn’t have any, but you still kept staring at nothing. So I tucked you in and left you. Guess you came out of it at some point and fell asleep.”
The boy shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I don’t remember any of it. I was fighting to stay alive, and then I woke up in my bed. Everything between then and now is a black hole in my memory. Can we go down and get something to eat? I want to leave right away.”
They left the room and descended the stairs together. The steps ended at the back entrance, and they turned into the kitchen through a second door that bypassed the great room. There wouldn’t be many patrons there at this hour, but even one would be enough to sound the alarm. Gammon motioned him over to the cook’s table and went to pour him some of last night’s beef stew, which was simmering in the kettle set over the stove flame at a low heat.
“You really ought to give it another day,” he said, but Reyn didn’t respond. He was finishing the last of his stew when there was a knock at the kitchen door leading in from the great room. He looked up expectantly. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had knocked on that door. Staff used it mostly, and there was no reason for them to knock.
Gammon walked over and pulled the door open. The black-cloaked stranger from the night before was standing there.
His eyes settled on the boy. “Would you be willing to spare me a few moments of your time?” When Reyn hesitated, he added, “I can sit with you right there. You won’t have to move. Just a few moments.”
Reyn wanted to say no. In fact, he was all prepared to say no, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way the stranger was looking at him or maybe it was simply his own curiosity. The stranger had known he had magic. Could he possibly teach Reyn more about it, how to manage it so he wouldn’t have to keep living in fear of losing control? He nodded and beckoned the other over.
The stranger took the chair across from him. “You certainly are full of surprises. Everyone’s talking about you.”
“What do you want?” Reyn asked, anxious to get on with things.
“You’re planning to leave?”
How did he know that? Reyn shrugged. “It seems like a good idea.”
“I’d like you to stay another couple of days. I have business that needs my immediate attention, but I don’t want to lose track of you. I can be back quickly enough when it’s finished.”
“I don’t think I have two days. I doubt that I have two hours.”
“The Fortrens?”
“You seem well informed about my situation.”
“I am well informed about most things, your singing included.”
Reyn paused. “You know what I can do?”
“I not only know what, I know why. I meant what I said last night. There is a history to your talent, and I can tell you all about it. I can offer you a better understanding of what it means and perhaps give you a way to control it.”
“But not now?”
“My business is pressing, and the need to address it is urgent. I must go at once. But I will be back, and we can talk then. At length, if you choose.”
“Well, perhaps you can tell me a way to reach you?”
“Or perhaps not. You intend to disappear somewhere the Fortrens and their ilk can never find you. One of the Southland cities, perhaps? Well, I need to be able to disappear, as well. So I need you to wait right here.”
He paused, his bladed features taking on a strangely feral look. “What if I guarantee you that the Fortrens will leave you alone until I get back? What if I can make certain they will not try to harm you? Or even come into the village?”
Reyn gave him a dubious look. “I think you offer more than you can deliver. The Fortrens aren’t the sort to listen to reason.”
The stranger stood up. “I’ll speak to them immediately. I’ll make the time. You won’t have to worry. Look for me in two days. You will be glad you waited. I will make it worth your while in more ways than one.”
And like that, without waiting for a further response from the boy, or even giving him another glance, he was out of his chair and gone.
—
Arcannen left the Boar’s Head quickly, anxious to wrap things up in Portlow so he could make his appointment in Sterne. He was already thinking ahead to what he would do once he got there, his plans taking shape as he mulled over his options. But now there needed to be some revisions. The boy was intrigued enough by Arcannen’s promise to reveal more about the nature of his magic that he would stay where he was for two days. Although once back again, Arcannen knew he would need more than a few promises to persuade the other to his cause.
What he would need was something the boy didn’t have but would want, even if the boy didn’t know what it was.
Fortunately, his sorcerer’s talents allowed him to divine the needs and desires of others. He had been able to do so here, and now all he needed to do was to produce what was required. The trouble this would require would be worth it in the end. Ten times worth it, if he could make the boy his ally.
But first, the Fortrens must be dealt with.
He had gleaned a little of their family history from talking to a few of the townspeople in a discreet and seemingly conversational way, so as not to cause suspicion. There was nothing very complicated about them. Their patriarch was Costa Fortren, a man nobody seemed to like and everybody feared. He was the one who could exercise control over the others, and there were plenty of others if you counted all the shirttails and hangers-on. Well over a hundred.
But Arcannen had been confronted by situations like this before, so he wasn’t at a loss to decide what needed doing.
He took his Sprint from where he had left it concealed in the surrounding forests—a modified two-man vessel that was sleek and fast. It was all that remained of his once-powerful fleet of airships, but then almost everything else was pretty much gone by now, as well. His failed attempt to subvert the Leah siblings and kill Aphenglow Elessedil had cost him everything, and he was still trying to figure out how to get it all back. The irony, of course, was that if he had just waited five years, the woman would have died anyway. Dealing with Isaturin as Ard Rhys would have been less of a challenge than dealing with Aphenglow, but the chance of gaining immediate control over the Druid order had been too tempting. Well, it was all water under the bridge now, and he did his best not to dwell on how things had turned out.
Save for the matter of Arbrox. That was too recent, and the emotional damage he had suffered as a result felt as fresh and raw as it had on the day the atrocity had been committed. That could not be forgotten.
He flew only a short distance before reaching the Fortren compound, a sprawling complex of houses and outbuildings—some barns, some storage bins for food and what he guessed were stolen goods—sitting out in a meadow with good sight lines in all directions. He crisscrossed the area several times so that everyone could get a look at him, then he brought the Sprint down close to the main house and climbed out.
Men converged on him from all sides, many carrying portable flash rips and spring guns, others crossbows and blades. They approached cautiously but showed no signs of being intimidated. He stood where he was as they closed in, wrapping himself in protective magic in case one or more got a little careless with their weapons. He hadn’t come out here to end up the victim of some fool’s overzealous behavior.
“Costa Fortren!” he called out boldly, scanning the faces around him. “Are you willing to speak with me?”
There was momentary silence; then the front door of the main house crashed open and a huge bear of a man lumbered into view. He was wearing furs and leather, and there were blades hanging fr
om belts and sheaths all about his body. He glared at Arcannen, then stomped down the steps of the building and came over. When he was a dozen feet away, he stopped. A handheld flash rip appeared in one great hand.
“Who are you?” he roared.
“My name is Arcannen.”
The big man shook his head. “Never heard of you. What are you doing here?”
The sorcerer ignored him. He gestured at the other’s weapon. “You seem well supplied with illegal goods. Those flash rips are meant as army issue only.”
Costa Fortren laughed, his belly shaking, his thick beard billowing out. “The army won’t miss them. You come here to try to take them back from us? You a Federation official?”
The sorcerer shook his head. “Hardly. They want me dead. They probably want you dead, too. So we have something in common.”
“We have nothing in common. You look like a Druid to me.”
“It might look that way, but I’m no Druid—though I do have the use of magic. I was passing through Portlow when I stumbled across someone I’ve been hoping to find for a very long time. Trouble is, you want to kill him.”
The other man’s eyebrows beetled together as he scowled. “You mean that boy? The one that killed Yancel and Borry? Would you be his friend, maybe? Come to beg for his life?”
Arcannen shook his head. He didn’t like all the dark looks he was getting from the rest of the assemblage. “I want to point out something before we continue. If any member of your family decides to use a weapon against me, it will end badly for them. I’m only here to talk.”
Costa Fortren glanced at the men and women surrounding them and shook his head. “Weapons down!” he roared. The response was immediate, as everyone took a step back. The big man looked at Arcannen. “No one does anything unless I tell them to. Say what you have to say. But don’t waste my time.”
“I have a request to make.” Arcannen kept the protective magic in place. “I need the boy alive because I have a use for him. My intention is to take him away with me. When I do, you will never see him again. But I need you to promise you will do nothing to him until then. Two days, maybe three from now.”
The Fortren patriarch stared at him. “He killed two of my sons. I don’t care what you want him for or why. He has to pay for what he did. I’ll never allow him to walk free.”
“I thought you might feel that way, but I have to warn you,” Arcannen continued. “He is not exactly what he appears. He is much more dangerous than you are. You or your whole family. He didn’t just kill your boys by accident. He has the use of powerful magic, and if you go after him, bad things will happen to you, too.”
“It doesn’t matter. He dies all the same.”
“There is every reason to believe that if I take him with me, he dies anyway. So why not wait and see? That way we both get what we want. If he lives through what I’ve got planned for him, you can always come after him later.”
“You talk nonsense, sorcerer! You talk like a fool.”
It wasn’t Costa Fortren who spoke this time. It was a young man who had stepped forward from the others, a flash rip lifted and pointed. The boy was young but his mean face and hard eyes suggested that he was old in other ways.
“Antriss!” Fortren snapped at him. “Did I not say to lower all weapons? Who leads this family?”
“I’ll not listen to any more of this man’s talk, Pap!” Antriss snarled. “He’s not taking that cow-dung music boy anywhere!”
He was working himself up to using the flash rip, and Arcannen was concerned that if he did so, it would set off all the others. His magic was significant, but it was not all-powerful. He had assumed something like this would happen, however, so he was prepared. He had known he would have to make an example of someone.
“Hold!” he snapped at the boy, one hand lifting, palm extended.
Instantly Antriss was frozen in place as the sorcerer’s magic wrapped him about. He fought to free himself, but the bonds were too strong. Arcannen left him that way and turned back to his father.
“How many sons do you have?” he asked, keeping his hand extended toward Antriss.
The big man hesitated. “Three, with Borry and Yancel gone. Let him go.”
“Is he your youngest, then?”
“He is. Now let him go or you’ll regret it.”
Arcannen smiled. “Not half so much as you will if you cross me. Will you grant me my request? Or would you prefer to lose another son? Or…would you like to see exactly what I can do?”
He twisted his outstretched hand slightly. Slowly, painfully, unable to keep himself from doing so, Antriss lifted the flash rip and pointed its barrel toward his own throat. “Father!” he croaked.
“Stop this!” Costa Fortren roared at Arcannen. “Let him go!”
Arcannen didn’t move, holding the boy and the weapon fast, watching the big man, waiting for a further response. “Do we have an understanding?” he pressed.
The Fortren patriarch fumed, barely able to contain himself. Then he nodded. “We do. Let him go!”
“Your word, please? Promise that neither you nor any of your family will harm the boy before I take him away. Promise that not one of you will even go into Portlow until then. Say it.”
Shouts and cries had risen from the remaining members of the family, some anguished, some furious, all directed at him. Arcannen paid no attention, his gaze locked on their leader.
“All right!” the big man howled, his face gone red, his body taut with rage and frustration. “I give you my word! On everything you just said!”
Arcannen gestured again, and Antriss lowered the flash rip. He stood there in silence, a stunned look on his face.
“A promise made under duress is not a binding promise!” Costa Fortren spat out the words venomously. His weapon lifted. “You realize that, don’t you?”
Arcannen did not respond. Instead, he gestured once more at Antriss, who raised the flash rip a second time, turned it toward the family members standing right behind him, and shot a man standing not six feet away. The charge from the weapon burned a hole through the man’s midsection and dropped him where he stood.
“Are you sure about that?” the sorcerer asked. A second motion of his hand had Antriss pointing the weapon at his own throat anew. “Very sure?”
“Enough!” The big man had gone pale. “I take your point. You have my word. I will keep it. The boy will be kept safe. Now get off my land!”
Arcannen nodded. “Just remember. If anything happens to that boy—anything at all—I will come looking for you. If I do that, your family will cease to exist. Every man, woman, and child. Don’t doubt me on this. I am a bad enemy to make, Costa Fortren. Much worse than you know.”
Keeping the protective magic wrapped close, the sorcerer eased toward his Sprint, eyes sweeping the faces of those surrounding him, watching for any sort of treachery. But everyone seemed thoroughly shocked by what he had just said, and no one was doing anything but watching him.
He reached the Sprint without difficulty and climbed back aboard. He felt reasonably certain he had convinced the Fortrens to do what he wanted. The boy would be safe until his return. There was nothing like an object lesson to make a point. Actions really did speak louder than words.
If not, it would be the worst mistake they had ever made.
He powered up the diapson crystals, and moments later he was winging his way toward Sterne.
SEVEN
Paxon Leah was working out in the practice yard with Oost Mondara, his prickly Gnome sword master and close friend, his black-bladed sword flashing in the sunlight as he progressed through a series of feints and strikes, thrusts and parries, incorporating everything into positions of defense and attack. It had been five years since these lessons had begun, and another man might have decided long ago that he had learned all there was to learn of swordsmanship and there was no point in continuing to study. But Paxon wasn’t just another man, and he took nothing for granted when it came to improving
his skills. That he had discovered the power of the ancient Sword of Leah was a gift to be honored. That he had been given the chance to serve as the Ard Rhys’s Blade and had been given a home and life in the Druid order was not something he would ever take for granted or fail to view as a challenge.
So every day he came down to the yard to practice with his blade, and every day he learned a little more and progressed a step further. Oost continued to instruct him, doing it now more out of the satisfaction he derived from viewing Paxon’s enthusiasm and steady development than he did out of a sense of obligation. In Paxon, the Gnome had found a kindred spirit—a fellow believer in the importance of hard work and dedication to a talent that clearly set him apart from almost everyone. Paxon was good with a blade, maybe the best the gnarled trainer had ever encountered, and if there was a way to make him even better then there was no reason not to employ it.
But Paxon was bored with practice and anxious for a chance to do something of a more practical nature, so he was excited and relieved when Keratrix arrived to tell him that Isaturin wished to see him when his practice time was finished. Paxon tried not to rush through what remained of his session, but failed miserably. Finally, Oost broke it off, throwing up his hands.
“That’s enough. You are sleepwalking through your disciplines! I’ve lost you completely.” His voice was gruff and accusatory. “Go find out what the Ard Rhys wants of you. Might as well do something useful.”
With muttered apologies thrown back over his shoulder, Paxon hurried off to do as the other had suggested, a sense of anticipation making him light-headed and happy. He was certain a mission awaited him, a chance to travel to another part of the world, an opportunity to use his skills to help someone. It was the reason he had accepted this position in the first place, the end result of the effort Aphenglow Elessedil had expended to convince him to abandon his old life hauling airfreight and to bring him to Paranor.