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

by Michael Wolff

  The privateer thrust the drunkard’s face so close to the fireplace his eyes twitched from the merciless heat. “You say you see the faces of the dead in the flame? Try picturing the ones who will die if the treaty falls apart! Try picturing the mothers and the fathers when they hear their children are dead! You have the power to save so many lives, and you’re throwing it all away because of one failure! Damn it, man!” DeLuca made an audible thump on the wooden floor. “Go back to feeling sorry for yourself. I guess that’s what you do best, now.” The privateer turned and marched towards the saloon doors.

  “Hey!” DeLuca was a menacing figure against the fireplace, his face sobered by sheer rage. “No one treats me like that and gets away with it!”

  “Oh really? What are you going to do about it, DeLuca? Stink me to death?” The gamble was made even more real when DeLuca joined Tolrep’s side.

  “I’ll get them to shut up. You take me to them and I’ll have them eating out of the palm of my hand.” The fire in his eyes promised that and more. “But before that you’re going to buy me a steak. And a shower. And some new clothes. Don’t give me the evil eye. You think I’m any use like this? Come on. Time’s wasting.”

  Tolrep sighed in frustration. This was going to be a long day.

  LIII

  John Stromgald sighed in frustration. Five years captaining a crew and suddenly he was useless without their strength. But the division of the rangers was necessary. In the short span of weeks Ronald acquired footholds in a myriad of businesses, and with their support the young Jekai had cemented his presence in a dozen fiefs. Ronald was sowing the seeds of invasion on multiple fronts, so that an attack upon one fief would prompt a counterattack from the others. All of Ronald’s footholds had to be destroyed utterly; hence the division of the team.

  The Aiagel Road was clogged with gold cloaks, but that didn’t mean the side roads were safe. The winter brought an ominous chill, a warning of nature to men. Walk lightly, for you are not welcome. Those who managed to build lives for themselves huddled in their small houses, trying not to wonder whatever or not the wooden walls would take another beating from the storms outside. Or when would they be forced to take the sword to their children’s frostbitten forefingers just to save the other nine. In this kind of peril, there were enemies abound.

  “There he is! Go around! Box him in!”

  A rather wiry-looking figure dashed into view. Frigid clouds erupted from his mouth in long, tortured wheezes, and his gait had the fumbling of desperation. Finally his foot slipped, and he crashed to the ground, skull rebounding off the ice with a nasty sound. Still he dragged himself across the ice. He doesn’t have a chance. Sometimes denial was the only courage a man had left.

  The soldiers came upon the man with a maddened frenzy. “Traitor!” Savage kicks heralded the thunder of snapping ribs. One soldier got a hammer from somewhere and laid down the weapon onto the man’s hand. The man’s scream almost drowned out the horrendous crack of bone, revealing at last the prize of the witch-hunt: a frosted loaf of bread, as useless as the hand that carried it. One soldier looped his arms around the victim’s arm-pits in a wrestling hold while the other delivered hammer-blows to the ribs and suddenly found the head of his war hammer plop onto the snow and his neck inches away from the silver steel of the katana, and then a meaty crunch as the other soldier collapsed with a broken nose.

  Stromgald took stock of the assailants. They weren’t soldiers. Just men in threadbare leather. They shared so much in their faces that there was no doubt they were family. That’s all it takes? One loaf of bread turns men into monsters? “Go. Now.” The greenlings didn’t need a reminder, though they did cast angry glances as they vanished from whence they came.

  “Mercy. Please have mercy.”

  “Be still.” Stromgald fell to one knee with a grimace. Even a blind man knew the wounds were beyond mortal healing. Weirwynd healing now...that was an entirely different story. It promised more problems than solutions; however, the other choice was to leave the man to freeze to death. What purpose of magic if it cannot save lives? “Look at me. Stop fighting and look into my eyes, dammit.” Frantic writhing slowed to stillness. Now for the hard part.

  The Rich Soil shiisaa blazed to life on his forearm, trickling down his veins in green flame. Threads of green and gold slipped from the contact and into the wounds, changing, melding into the broken bone. Lengthening nerves once severed, filling in the cracks. Whimpers of pain reverberated across the world, tiny ripples in the pond of existence. Bones jumped as they returned to proper dimensions...done. The eldritch light in Stromgald’s eye faded, as did the green in his fingers. It’s done.

  Healing the other wounds was out of the question. The recovery of the body had completely drained the ranger’s vitality. Gently he lifted the boy – he’s just a boy – and returned him to the small shelter the ranger had constructed. Stromgald healed him as best he could and sank against the walls. The rest depended on the boy.

  Sunlight glared into Stromgald’s eyes as the dawn rose. With a shrug, he rose and tagged the boy upon the shoulder. “Wake up.” Breakfast was nothing to look forward to; however, complaining would not improve anything, so the ranger prepared the food. “Wake up. Time for breakfast.” The boy’s silence compounded Stromgald’s frustration, so he whipped about with a lashing at the ready...and gaped in shock.

  Dead. The boy was dead. The blue at lips and fingers spoke of frostbite, and the pale pallor of his flesh suggested a fatal nap in winter’s embrace. No. It couldn’t have failed. The magic healed the wounds perfectly. Then why didn’t it work?

  On impulse, the ranger placed a hand on the boy’s chest and activated the Seeking shiisaa. The boy had rejected the healing. So blasted was his terror that he chose death rather than live. Live without what? Friends? Neighbors? Lovers? It must have been a great and terrible thing snatched away, for only a force of great will could annul magic. Stromgald performed the last rites in the small shelter, and then was on his way.

  By noon he arrived at a village. Its gates were little more than a length of barbed wire; not surprising given the town was a farmer’s heaven. What was surprising was there was no one guarding them. Half-finished snowmen dotted the main street, some without eyes, some without noses, some without heads. Sleds were spiked into small snow banks or abandoned in the middle of a sloping hill. Slowly Stromgald advanced, his entire body prickling with primordial instincts. Something wasn’t right.

  Then a sharp hiss escaped him as his boot grazed a particularly stubborn mound of snow. Only snow was not that hard. No. Stromgald fell to one knee under the weight of frantic revelation. It can’t be. It can’t. His fingers blurred across the snow, harder and faster as fear compounded into terrible conviction, until...until...

  A child’s face stared back at him. His skin was blue, most notably in the lips and fingers. Classic signs of hypothermia. Why would the townsfolk leave him here? Perhaps they had no choice. Perhaps they sought to outrun the source of such abject danger. Stromgald moved on.

  The corpses didn’t end there. Now that Stromgald knew what to look for, he found the fallen at every other step. Each one was as sterile as the last, cold and preserved. None of the fallen seemed to be in pain. One and all they looked as though sleeping. Stromgald despaired. It would take a lifetime to go through all the means that killed without pain. The sound of the katana leaving the sheath was an odd one; the steel breathing in a den of death. You know what you must do. You need to know what killed these people. You need to know so you can stop it. That one, singular eye was drawn like a pendulum between the winking katana and the child’s face. You know what you need to do.

  No. The sword rasped back into the sheath. It’s too late. The temperature has altered the circumstances of the body. Any analysis I perform will be corrupted. T
ruth, down to the very last word. It didn’t stop the guilt from clawing at his mind. All he could do was move forward and hope that was a way to stop this madness. I will stop it. I swear.

  The next town was immune to the disease that ravaged its’ cousin. The guards manning the gate eyed the figure that strode with an eerie confidence so superior than their own they were ready to harass this man to sooth their own inadequacies. Then they saw the man’s eye and realized the glacial cold gaze promised a death without as much as an afterthought. There were others to play with, the soldiers decided, and it was so that John Stromgald entered the town unhindered. If only everything was going to be that easy.

  “Haven’t you heard? The Aiagel village has been decimated.”

  “I heard it was devoured by ghosts.”

  “Don’t be a simpleton. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “Then how do you explain it?”

  “Well, Ferrers said it was the harsh winter. People get crazy when they get hungry.”

  “Well I’m glad someone is doing the right thing.”

  “Would this “someone” be by any chance that handsome Samaritan that walked in a few days ago?”

  “Well I never. I’m a married woman now. It is not proper to slander my good name.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m glad Lord Samaritan is here. He did cure that Collins boy, after all. Remember how sick he was? A moment with Lord Samaritan and the boy was bouncing all over the place. I’ll sleep better knowing we’re protected.”

  “Dreams are as far as you’ll get, my friend. I saw him first.”

  Stromgald froze at the last. A Solvicar physician? A mysterious savior? Don’t succumb to paranoia, ranger. Still, the gossip was as good a path as any. It led Stromgald on a merry tour throughout the town’s various establishments. Sour ale found him sharing mugs with men in women’s gowns, and bitter ale introduced him to singing men who had the voice of a bullfrog. Twilight’s descent found the ranger standing at the home of Chris Ferrers, physician, coroner and Solvicar. Stromgald took a deep breath. The moment before the plunge. The last shred of peace before the raging storm. “Hello? Sir Ferrers?”

  “In the back.” Stromgald winced at finding the door unlocked. These were hardly the times to trust in countryside tranquility. The ranger captain entered and took a moment to absorb the surroundings. The furniture was fashioned from evergreen oak, probably grown in the village. The craftsmanship was local. The wine bottles on the farthest wall had the tinge of oak-brewing, and the gutted fish hanging on the kitchen’s arch had the distinct smell of oak chips. This was a man-made haven in every sense of the word.

  “I am sorry for the poor hospitality. I rarely get visitors at this hour.” The pair stopped dead in their tracks upon the sight of each other, adding a veneer of confusion to the quickening awkward situation.

  “You’re a woman.” That she was. Long, curly, ebony locks cascaded down a sensual, tanned face to gingerly hook under a lush bosom. It was instantly apparent that low-grade clothing failed to minimize her exotic magnificence, and her eyes showed a fierce intolerance against the assumption she was all beauty and little brain. Stromgald mentally kicked himself. “I thought a Chris Ferrers...”

  “Short for Kristen Ferrers.”

  Stromgald decided straight-forwardness was the best course. “I never heard of a woman Solvicar before.”

  “That’s because there aren’t any. Not anymore.” The words were out before she could reel them back; Stromgald cast a glance at the golden cloak hanging on a wall peg. Apparently, she had the pride of a bloodhound, for the friendly timbre were gone from her voice, and her lovely brown eyes now regarded him with suspicion. “I’ve yet to entertain strangers. Especially strangers without a wit in their head.”

  Oh. “John Stromgald.”

  “So. John Stromgald. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve come here through Aiagel.” There was a slight shudder from Ferrers, so quick that it was almost invisible to anyone not looking for the sign.

  “Did you see a boy there? A foot or two shorter, tousled hair, stocky as a crane?”

  “Yes. Some soldiers put a hammer to his ribs. I’m sorry.”

  “Those “soldiers” were his brothers. I hope you gave them what they deserved.”

  “They’re still alive, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t kill without good reason.” Still Stromgald was sympathetic with the fury throttling the physician. “If they haven’t come back by now they’re probably on the other end of the continent by now. They’ll think twice about harming someone, I promise you that.”

  She nodded. “Should I assume the worst? I don’t see Christopher – the boy – at your side.”

  “I’m sorry. I tried to help him, but he died this morning.”

  “Don’t feel ill. I haven’t been able to heal the disease either.”

  Stromgald sighed. Secrets, secrets. “The problem is that I used this heal him.” An upturned palm came alive with the green glow of Geo shiisaa. Ferrers didn’t react with the wide-eyed shock Stromgald had come to expect of the common man discovering his secret. “I am a jord. A warrior of the earth. I should have saved him. He actually willed the magic not to heal him. The tragedy of Aiagel was so much that he wanted to die with the rest of the people.”

  This time Ferrers did blink. “I did not think that was possible.”

  “Neither did I.” An uncomfortable pause. “Doctor Ferrers –”

  “Kristin, please. I’m hardly a doctor anymore.”

  “Kristin, then. What do you know of this “Lord Samaritan?”

  “I know that he’s destroyed my reputation in this town. I spent a week keeping Quinn Collins alive, and barely at that.” She sighed before continuing. “Quinn was in love with me, did you know? When he came of age he spent three days on the porch steps, begging me for a date. I told him there were other girls – he could get anyone of them; they’ve been chasing him for years – but he said he didn’t want to have those girls. He just wanted me.” A slight, sad chuckle. “His mother never forgave me for that.” A tired laugh escaped her, feeble and helpless. “Then this fool waltzes in like he owns the town, spends one minute with the boy, and cures him.”

  “You have your doubts.”

  “You bet I do. The bastard wanted no one to interfere with the “ritual,” as he called it. Three village men held me back from my own door. Now I can’t get within a foot of that child. The Samaritan’s fame came at the cost of mine. I suspect they’ll ask me to leave soon. There’s been vandalism to that effect already.” This time Ferrers let the shudder play out. It was difficult to gather the pieces of a life shattered beyond recognition. “But this is not your purpose.”

  A hundred answers flittered across the ranger’s mind. “No. No it isn’t. I have my own agenda, and I hope I can call on your aid to complete it.”

  “Rather cocky, aren’t you? You’re very confident for aid I’ve yet to grant.”

  “I don’t like to muddle through bullshit.”

  “Honesty in a man. May God be praised.” She smoothed her dress as if to prepare herself, then nodded to Stromgald to begin.

  “Robert Jekai has been usurped by his son Ronald.”

  “You know Fa – I mean, you know Lord Jekai?” The slip of the tongue, and the passion backing it, was undeniable. Ferrers’ face had withdrawn into a mask with all the finality of a slammed gate.

  “Richard Jekai fell defending an unimportant fort. Ronald assumed control after Lord Jekai fell into a depression. I did not realize the extent of Ronald’s plan until he plotted my death.

  “Ronald had his father shipped on a private boat.” Stromgald
cut Ferrers’ protest in half with a raised hand. “He is well. Lord Jekai has signed a treaty that has ended the hostilities. You know how information plays itself out. It might be weeks; maybe months before the forces know the war has ended. And no, I can’t tell you where he is. The less people know he is alive, the better.”

  “Damn. So what now?”

  “Ronald is pulling all the strings he can. As the heir to the Jekai line he is using the resources of the barons under his family’s rule. Obviously, the fortune is vast. Far too vast to be destroyed in a single campaign. I decided it was best to attack on multiple fronts. I drew the short stick, so I’m in charge of dismantling the army’s food supply.”

  “How many of your people are manning the fronts?”

  Stromgald hated that he sounded a guilty child. “Three.”

  “Three?” Ferrers launched straight from her stool. “That’s your plan? Three people to attack an army’s resource? Even on some minuscule chance you succeed, have you considered the consequences? The Coicro would take the war without the Solvicar to defend us.”

  “I have one of my men on that now, Kristen.”

  “You trust him that much?”

  Stromgald cracked a smile. “He’s very good at destroying things.”

  Kristin searched his eyes for a moment, and then nodded. “What can I do?”

  “You can tell me the specifics. Start with Quinn. How did he get sick? What afflicted him?”

  “I don’t know. He came to me for his daily proposal. I rebuffed him as gently as I could. Then the day after he was late. At first, I thought he overslept. Then an hour passed. Two. And then in the middle of the night my front door is slammed almost off the hinges, and in walks Collins’ father, carrying his son in tow. They’d found him sleeping, but he couldn’t wake up.” She squeezed his eyes shut as if to deny the memory. “For five days Quinn lay in bed. Every day I had to watch his parents’ hearts break when I told them there was no improvement. His mother stripped the walls with the curses she spat at me.”