Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2)

by Michael Wolff

  Then he saw them. Cullen’s arm was wrapped about Jelina’s neck, his other hand clutching a knife inches from the girl’s scalp. Both prisoner and child were speaking to each other as though there was no storm to hinder the sound. Tolrep could imagine well enough the dialogue.

  “Don’t hurt her!” he called to Cullen. “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt her!” Too late the privateer saw the wave swelling up behind the pair. “No! Get away! Get away!” The wave slammed the deck like a hammer, hurling everyone in different directions. Pain blazed the world red as Tolrep was slammed against the bow. It was only an instant, but it was too late. Both Cullen and Jelina were gone. “Jelina! No! Jelina!” Arms closed about his chest. “Let me go, damn you! Let me go!” More hands curled about his legs, slowing each of his steps to inches. “Damn you! Let go!”

  Something clubbed the back of his neck, and the dark closed in with the horror of impotence. Jelina!

  Pain woke him, his first seconds of curiosity melting into abrupt horror. Jelina! Something was holding him down, something soft but padded. Movement of limbs came with a sharp pain of stitches tearing free. Breath was stale under the cotton of makeshift bandages.

  Then memory came back stronger, and all the pieces fell into place with horrible accuracy. Jelina. By the gods, no! Fury lent him strength, first against the delicate poultices that kept him to the bed, second against the cadre of women hawking over him. The eldest among them motioned the nurses back, grieving at the fury with which the privateer tore at the cotton that bound him.

  “That’s not a very good idea, Cap.” Ashnoi, weary as a virgin sailor. The cotton on him lent him an even more piratical air, disturbed only by the length of wood keeping him upright. “You’ll tear out the stitches –”

  “I don’t give a damn about the stitches.” His legs almost folded from under him, and he used the discontent to burn the worrying nurses back to a safe distance, just as he used his fear to pull himself up and through the door he slammed almost off its hinges. For a moment, he imagined the slam was a blade slicing through Cullen’s neck.

  The Tennant was undamaged. Magical ships tended to be a tougher breed, but the privateer barely noticed. Without really knowing what he was doing Tolrep jumped into the boat, ordered the men out and cut the cables securing it. Voices droned on above, little more than the buzzing of gnats. An icy mist wreathed the horizon, billowing here and there, enough to reveal an isle bobbing in the sea. Osric’s Grave, it was called. The only piece of land for ten leagues. They would be there. Again the horror of Jelina’s abduction rose like a specter to his eyes. They will be there. There was no room for the alternative.

  Whoever he was, this Cullen was not a particularly adept soldier. His footprints were so obvious a donkey could follow it blindfolded. Broken branches, patches of fluffed-up snow –Jelina’s fighting him, good girl – was all sloppy. Careful now. Wheels within wheels. Deception was an officer’s bread and butter. He overwhelmed guards and chains, after all. He is more of a threat than he seems.

  They waited for him at an abandoned tower; its roof gutted a quarter of its length, a crown without its gems, wasting away under the snow that corded its staggered frame. From somewhere Cullen had found a longsword; now embedded into the snow, long fingers impatiently drumming the hilt. The other hand gripped Jelina’s shoulder possessively. From this distance, the gripping fingers took on a demonic cast, nails thin as needles, biting into the shoulder, like breaking a stallion with pain.

  “So. The mighty captain reveals himself. Just in time. I was getting bored.” His eyes narrowed at Jelina’s sudden gasp, then smiled. “You are wounded, and still you came. Admirable. Very stupid, but admirable.” Tolrep blinked as Cullen shoved Jelina to the side. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I killed a man,” Cullen said.

  Tolrep said nothing. A light press of hidden switches, and a pair of blades clicked into place under the gun-barrels. Six inches of serrated steel; more than enough to gut a man.

  “Clever. Little blades for a little man. How long will you last, I wonder?” At the last Cullen lunged...and gaped in shock when Tolrep’s parry cut a line of fire down his forearm. Tolrep could read the man’s face with the ease of an open book. Undefeated at playacting did not mean undefeated in real life. Idly the privateer wondered if those hands had seen any use in battle. Then Cullen lunged again with a strangled roar.

  Whip Across the Shoulders. Actor Fumbles on Stage. Pillars of Pride Tumble.

  Sway of The Sea. Billowing Sails. Taste of The Wind.

  Sparks screamed from the contact, hopping to and fro across the ground, snuffed out by the embrace of winter snow. There was a wetness at Tolrep’s side that he didn’t really feel, and a line of blood that set Cullen’s face aflame. Good, Tolrep thought. Anger is almost as good as steel; his father had said once. Again Cullen took the initiative.

  Artisan of Blueblood Falters. Confidence of Gold. Avalanche of Fear.

  Battling the Violent Storm. Roar of The Cannons. Ship Cleaving the Water.

  Tolrep caught the other’s sword with crossed knives, one atop the blade and the other underneath. An abrupt jerk of the knives in respective directions shattered the longsword, followed by the kick that floored Cullen. “Please. Please have mercy. I beg of you. Mercy.”

  Like hell.

  The first shot cracked like thunder, and suddenly there was a bloody stump where Cullen’s hand had been. His screams doubled when the second shot took off the other hand. Jelina ran straight for Tolrep, rocking him to the ground by the force of her embrace. “It’s okay now. I’m here. Shh. You’re safe.”

  “I’m sorry Matty. I’m so, so sorry. I should have listened to you.”

  Yes, you should have. It was not the proper time for that. Instead Tolrep joined the screaming ruin of the man. “You shouldn’t have touched my daughter.” The gun-hilt met Cullen’s nose with a meaty crunch, and the blueblood was once again a prisoner.

  A sudden noise snapped Tolrep back to the horizon. Tsukasa and Ashnoi, running from the storm. “Cap! Is she –” A sigh escaped him at Jelina. “I’m sorry, Cap. It’s my fault that bastard got free.”

  “No,” Ashnoi said hastily. “It’s my fault, Cap. I’m the one who brought him dinner. I’m the one who forgot to take the knife after he was done.” Both regarded Jelina with luminous eyes. “Please forgive us, little one.” Jelina ran into their open arms and giggled when Ashnoi and Tsukasa spun her about in circles in alternating turns...until Tolrep’s abrupt cough brought them to attention.

  “Get this idiot back into the hold. If you’re not too busy, that is.” Tolrep laughed all the way back to the ship. Defeating Cullen almost made up of the string of bad luck lately. Almost. Now all I have to do is get the bastard to the exchange and get the hell out of there should an angry relative wanting revenge. Simple stuff, really.

  XLII

  “What?”

  Shayna twitched. “What?”

  “You’re staring at me. What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me “nothing.” I invented “nothing.” Now, what is it?”

  “I was just...I was just wondering. That rage...back at the Fenrir Manor...where did that come from?”

  Where did that come from? Memory put the question to a child’s sing-song lyrics, along with the many faces that sang the question over the years. Chief among them was a face with curly orange hair and a splattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose. Kurtis Fenrir. Model son, model noble. His damning question. Where did that come from?

  Mykel quivered on the cusp of violence. Where did that come from? As though the librarian was an automaton, without feeling. As though he were a thing, a doll masquerading as a man. He wa
s so quiet at times that people forgot he had feelings. Usually he had a grip on it. But he wasn’t a doll. When that temper exploded, the first thing out of people’s mouths were that question. Where did that come from? As if he wasn’t supposed to have feelings.

  Shayna’s voice broke the reverie and was given a glare of hate in return. A few measured breaths and an apology ended the matter. It should have ended the matter, but Shayna did not let things be.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You cannot bear this burden forever.”

  “Oh, I think I can. And what makes you think you can “help” me? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know you’re a good person. I know you hurt inside. I...I don’t want you to end up alone.”

  Mykel stopped the horse. “I should have been thrown to the wolves. Instead I was taken in to a family famous for its diplomats, its scholars, its warriors. The family never recovered from the ostracism gained by my raising. My stepmother is forever seen as a daft woman, bordering on the invalid. My stepfather? He was one of the greatest generals this kingdom ever had. Now, he’s little more than a court jester in the eyes of the noble houses.”

  The librarian paused. The confession was hellish enough, and yet there was more to be said. “This is no fairy tale. There is no redemption. I am poison, Shayna. I always have been, and I always will be. Nothing can change that.” With that Mykel booted his horse forward. He had enough of this conversation.

  The conversation wasn’t done with him, however. Where did that come from? Where did that come from? Even the thought boiled his veins. No. Don’t be angry with her. She’s just concerned.

  The past was the least of their worries. The memory of advancing Versi was still fresh in their minds. Always they would glance back to see the road clear of travelers save themselves. And again, five minutes passed. They were leery of horsemen, hid in spare bushes in their efforts to remain unnoticed. The horsemen never bore the blue-black cloak signature to Myrrh, but fear quickened in them anyways.

  On the dawn of the eleventh day, sometime around the crook of noon, wagons began rolling their way down the road, the dust roiling in puffs that skittered after them. Some gave them rides, others glared menacingly as though they raped a sister, spitting before coming out of reach. And of course, there were the bangle-mailed guards of the road, thinning out the herd that walked the path. Mykel was at first gladdened at the sight of men who owned steel...until he realized that they were little more than sentries. The castles they protected were still days off. It was not that hard to evade them; they rolled dice or slept on their heels. Soon the appearance of guards brought not a relief of journey’s end but a stab of fleeting despair, a reminder that they were still far from their destination.

  Their destination? Irismil? That was a world away. Not to mention the flimsiness of the idea. Any place that housed a scholar of Weirwynd rituals was most probably a Weirwynd himself. Which meant the town was likewise protected by the Weirwynd’s charms. This meant they would be rejected outright, shiisaa or no shiisaa. Still, they had to go somewhere.

  The first village they came across was named Yegezi. In truth, it was nothing more than a few stone houses with roofs of hay. Behind the two were the snow-laden gardens, as empty as the family’s stomachs. A few coppers earned the two a place in the inn’s hayloft and ultimately abandoned in the middle of the night. Too many villagers hated them on the instant, hated that their bellies were sparse and withered while theirs still had the glow of life. No, it was not a safe place to be.

  Sometimes the Versi found them. One night they slept upon the edge of the road, where the hedges gave some comfort from the cold. Mykel personally was having a disturbing dream; one of too-vague faces moaning at him. He caught glimpses of forms snaking through the mist the surrounded everywhere. Kurtis. His mother and father. Caryl and Wil. And then there was this strange figure, the mist coiling about him a pale scarlet. His words echoed in Mykel’s ears.

  WAKE UP.

  Mykel snapped awake. A pale set of crimson eyes stared at him. Ifirit came almost without calling, and a broad stroke severed the demon’s head from his shoulders. What are you doing? Wake Shayna. The librarian whirled at the notion and saw a Versi’s claws ready to descend upon the Companion. The Cassan race was a people of prophets – Pain ripped across his back. No. No more stories. No more history. Shayna. The battle-black descended, devouring doubt and fear. Shayna.

  With a wordless howl Mykel bounced from his cloak and took fingers and hands with a down-stroke. The fountain of blood woke Shayna up, and as she saw its origin she growled. Helped up by Mykel her rapier lashed out, impaling Versi as she laid about them.

  When finally they were dead, Mykel saw a shimmering haze of blue-black and the faint traces of a form on horseback. The librarian’s mouth went dry, and before Shayna could sheath her sword, he’d grabbed her hand and ran down the road for a mile. Only then, with the shadows thick on the road, did Mykel pause for a moment.

  “This is only the first wave, isn’t it?” Shayna asked hollowly. “There’s going to be more of them, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” But how could they have known where they were? Mykel hadn’t cast any spells, he had none – damn. He said it again as he turned the good arm over. “Damn.”

  Amidst the brown leather of the styxsteel there was a cut, a groove where flame roiled against the divide. That was how the demons had found them; they had the scent of magics to guide them. Flushing with horror, Mykel all but threw Shayna to her feet and hurried onward into the dark. Sleep was not with them that night.

  Worry curled a ball at the pit of Mykel’s stomach. The bracer must be fixed. Again, the librarian cursed his uselessness. He knew not the craft of such things, and no endem blacksmith would know what he was doing. Shayna aided as much as she could, but every night the effects of her spells shortened. It was as if the Fire was resisting the Frost cast upon it.

  Thus, each night the two slept with the fear that they might die by a small slit no bigger than a man’s finger. Sometimes they slept not at all, but stared upward at the stars and the moon, wishing the latter would fade. All the moon did now was serving as another beacon to the demons that chased after them.

  Then Shayna came up with an idea. Mykel did not like it, but he could not design his own plan.

  The first farm-door they tried revealed a wizened old man, with tufts of white hair sprouting from every orifice. With blue work-clothes and a pipe clenched between his teeth, he was the very image of a farmer. “What you children want?”

  “Well hello, sir,” Mykel said, trying to force emotions into his words. “My name is Morgan Lewis, and my bride Sara. We were on the way to my father’s estates when we were stopped by highwaymen and robbed of everything. I was hoping you could be as generous as to letting us spend the night in your house.”

  The old man stepped back and nodded them into the house. The farmer’s wife was less of a problem. For the additions of a near-mythical romance the two earned a hot dinner and a night at the hayloft.

  Not that the visit was totally free. They were, after all, on a farm. There were chores to do.

  Mykel walked to the barn, tired of telling the old man’s grandchildren stories. They were vultures, those kids, waiting for the librarian to tire and then twisted even more out of him. Finally, the last one dropped off to sleep, and Mykel fell with them in the chair he’d occupied. Now he was carefully making his way to the barn to hide. The little devils had to run out of energy some time. He just had to hide until that moment came.

  Shayna was working with pitchfork and hay-bales when he came in. She was tired and stank of cows. “Hey,” the librarian said.

  Shayna glanced over her shoulder. “Oh. It’s you. What do you want?”
>
  “Nothing. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Well hello. Now if you excuse me, I have hay-bales to move.”

  Mykel hesitated at the venom dripping from her words. “What’s the matter? I though you said you was used to this work before you came to Christina’s service.”

  There was a crash; the pitchfork quivered upon the ground. “I did. What about your work?”

  “I just gone done telling the children stories.”

  Shayna’s brow furrowed. “Telling stories while I’ve been out here, pitching hay.” She snorted. “I could do that.”

  Something dark stirred in the librarian’s gut. “It’s harder than it sounds.”

  “Harder? Telling stories is harder? You have no idea. Have you done a day of work in your life? You can’t birth a calf, can’t wield a scythe, can’t feed cattle. Tell me, Mykel. Is there anything you can do?”

  “That’s unfair –”

  “Unfair? Unfair?” Red crept into Shayna’s face, her frame quivering with reined-in rage. When she spoke, her words were fire. “It’s unfair that you stay in that house and leave me to do a man’s work. The work you could be doing would you a full man.”

  Murder flashed across the librarian’s thoughts. Briefly. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want...I want...” Huffing Shayna turned and marched from the barn. Mykel knew the true weight to her mood. Working was all fine until one sees a partner lounge in coolness where one had the sun’s ire to burn them. Never did events go the way as intended.

  He came from the barn and spotted Shayna, hoisting an axe above her head. In three quick strides Mykel reached her and grasped the wooden handle of the axe. “You go rest,” he said to a surprised Shayna. “Go. You deserve it.”