by Eve Forward
“Really! Show the clumsy ox in, then,” he directed.
The mages watched curiously as their leader pressed himself against the side of the doorway, eyes sparkling, and motioned to them to be silent.
A moment later, a ringing of mail sounded, and into the doorway stepped an impressive figure. A handsome man, over six feet tall, with shaggy brown hair and a thick curly beard. He was garbed all in silver chain mail, over which he wore a crimson tunic with a device of a white tiger rampant. Over his shoulders was thrown a red cloak trimmed in white fur, and he carried a helmet inlaid with silver under his arm. This was Lord Tasmene, descendant of the Hero Tamarne. Tasmene was an exadventurer, and the King of Ein. His eagle-sharp blue eyes glinted as he looked around the room, stepping through the doorway.
Fenwick reached out from his hiding place and abruptly pounded the man on the shoulder. The two men jerked around and faced each other, then began roaring like bears and cuffing each other around the head and shoulders. Finally Lord Tasmene fetched the smaller, slighter prince a hefty whap across the shoulder blades, that knocked him sprawling, and the two burst into laughter. “Blast it, Fenwick, you’re too delicate! Don’t they feed you over there?” roared Tasmene cheerfully.
“And you, old friend, like a great wheeump!” said Fenwick, laughing and leaping to his feet unharmed. His eyes widened, and he reached out and tugged on the man’s beard. “And what’s this, then? Have you become so clumsy that you feared for your life each day you took up a razor?”
The big man gently picked the ranger up by his collar.
“You are but jealous, my old friend, ever since I joshed your little smudge mustache on the Fields of Kalom.”
Fenwick laughed, and Tasmene set him down. “Enough of this, Fenwick. What is this missive you have sent me?”
“I really did not expect you to show up in person, Tasmene. I merely asked for your assistance ...”
“And you have it, of course! Even now my companions ... you recall them, o great Prince?” asked Tasmene with a smile.
“How could I not? Your little scruffy band of adventurers has both helped and hindered me and mine time and time again. The sturdy Northerman Thurbin, the noble knight Sir Reginald, your scout Dusty, the fair lady warrior Danathala. Your brother; the sly and mysterious mage Tesubar, the mountain barbarian Icecliff Cragland, and the healer, his lady, Waterwind, of these same plains we now look over. And of course your Lady Tilla, a swordswoman in her own right,” finished Fenwick with a smile. Tasmene chuckled.
“All correct save the last. Fenny.” he began, as Fenwick heard the stifled snickers from the mages behind him at the sound of his nickname. “Lady Tilla waits safely at home in Castle Praust-Palar, expecting our first child.” The big warrior’s face beamed with smug pride and Fenwick grabbed his hand and shook it.
“My arrows! Congratulations, old friend! This is fine news indeed.” Tasmene bowed his head in proud acknowledgment, then continued in a serious tone.
“And in other business, however, my men-at-arms even now move Plainswards to your stated position. Tell me, friend, what is the cause that such a force as you and I together must have to be called out? I was in such curiosity I had Tesubar teleport me to your location at once.”
Fenwick too became serious. “A small force of evil, my friend, small, but slippery as quicksilver. My men and I have so far had to use caution in our attempts to capture them and this has hindered our efforts. But soon the causes of that caution will be removed, and we shall sweep down upon the remainders like hawks.”
“Causes of caution?” asked Lord Tasmene, scratching his beard. Fenwick nodded.
“A centaur, who is in the employ of the Arch-Mage Mizzamir, and a young lady with flame-red hair.”
“Oho!” exclaimed Tasmene. “A lady? Is it perhaps that my friend tires of heartbreaking and seeks a more permanent companion, as I have done?”
“Perhaps,” chuckled Fenwick. “Although a permanence may not work out... if it is the case, there is nothing wrong in a bit of heartbreaking.” Fenwick winked.
“Well, then,” replied Lord Tasmene, “what is your plan?”
Fenwick smiled. “It involves a dragon ...”
Blackmail remained uneasy, staring with dark visor-slit at the sky and the distant sea while the others ate a leisurely supper and relaxed aching muscles. Their attitude disturbed Robin; surely people on a quest so serious, facing the odds they did, would be more concerned, more dismal? But perhaps that had something to do with their evilness; heroes were concerned for the fate of all, while these people obviously felt that the rest of the world could go hang so long as they themselves were set up comfortably.
They relaxed on the hillside in the heat of the day. The fields were flat and empty, the sky a bright blue, patched here and there with thick white clouds. And yet Blackmail kept raising his dark visor to the sky, and Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling. His starshaped birthmark seemed to itch, and he rumpled his tunic scratching at it.
They had just drifted off to sleep when suddenly there was a great clatter of metal as Blackmail lurched to his feet and drew his sword. The others awoke with a start to see a huge shape burst out of the clouds, great batwings beating the air as it swooped down on them. Jacinth flames burst from its gullet as they scrambled in terror.
Lumathix had found them, and the attack was too sudden to think.
The grass of the campsite exploded in flames. Sam, wakened from a sound sleep but still quick as ever, rolled out of the way and was missed entirely. Robin shied and ran out of the way, but the dragon ignored him. Blackmail raised his shield as the blast hammered down and not a lick of flame touched him. Arcie and Valerie were not so fortunate, caught in the fringes of the blast; smoke billowed up from the grass around them, drowning cries of pain. Kaylana jumped back as the rose-gold dragon landed with a jarring crash on the campsite.
Then all was chaos. Three daggers bounced in quick succession off the dragon’s shoulder scales, then Sam was knocked flat by a lash of the great tail. Robin, unsure of what to do, drew his sword, and Arcie staggered coughing from the flames with his morning star; the dragon spoke words in the language of magic, and the centaur abruptly collapsed, dropped by a spell of magical slumber.
The tail lashed again, sending Arcie flying.
Blackmail charged forward, his sword swinging, and dealt the great beast a nasty blow to the side. The dragon roared and lunged at him, claws raking on platemail, jaws snapping. But the knight defended himself with sword and shield, and blood flew. Sam appeared again to the side; the dragon lunged with terrifying swiftness and its great teeth clashed together with a spurt of flame an inch from where the assassin had been.
Lumathix roared again and lashed out with his tail; the great muscular tail struck Kaylana before she could move. She flew backward through the air and landed with a jarring thud some yards away, her staff knocked from her hand. She raised her head, shaking it to clear it, and began groping frantically around for the staff. The dragon smacked Blackmail a final time with a huge fore-claw, slapped Sam crushingly across the chest with its huge tail once more, and bounded forward. It seized the oak staff in its huge mouth, then grabbed the Druid in its huge paws.
With a mighty leap it sprang into the air, Kaylana gripped so tightly in the scaly paws she couldn’t move, and flew upward and away, heading toward the dim shadow of the distant sea and leaving a battered and bloody group of villains on a broad patch of black and smoking turf.
“Oh, hells,” groaned Sam after a moment. Blackmail, his armor scratched and dented by the dragon’s claws, wiped his sword on the grass and sheathed it. Sam got unsteadily to his feet. “That was the same one as before, I think,” he added. He limped over to where three of his companions lay scattered on the turf. Arcie was blackened and burned, his clothes a mess of charred edges and soot, but he blinked and opened- his eyes when Sam shook him, and then began moaning and complaining loudly of the pain from his burns. Robin seemed to
be unharmed, and Sam was just about to wake him when a hoarse cawing sound startled them. They looked over to see Nightshade the raven jumping up and down near Valerie’s still form. They hurried over, and Arcie winced.
“Baris and Bella,” he whispered. “Yon great beast must have trodden upon her.”
It did indeed look so ... the frail Nathauan’s body was twisted into the ground, her fair skin charred and crimson-blistered from the dragon’s breath. The long black hair was little more than crumpled soot.
“Are she ...?” asked Arcie. The sorceress was unmoving.
Sam shook his head.
“Her familiar’s still alive, so she must be also ... I don’t know for how long though.”
Indeed the raven seemed quite frantic, jumping up and down, flapping its wings. And the broken form on the ground made a faint sound of pain. The men exchanged glances. Robin, woken from the magical sleep by the noise, raised his head and pricked his ears to listen to Sam and Arcie as the knight stood silently by.
“ ‘Tis best we end it,” suggested Arcie. “Nought we might do ... Kaylana might have done, but ...” He shrugged and winced, cursing, in pain as he was reminded of his injuries.
Sam shook his head again. “We’ve got to try to save her. There was that tribe of barbarians around, I remember noticing their campfires not too far away. They may have a healer...”
“Sam, ‘tis a waste of time and dangerous. Best we leave her and press on. I’m in fardlin’ agony.”
Ah, thought Robin. So darkness does abandon its own.
“Arcie, normally I’d say, yes, let’s abandon her. She’s evil, she’s powerful, thus she’s dangerous. But also ...” he began ticking off his fingers. “One, she’s saved my life twice at least. Of course, that doesn’t really make much difference, and if that was all, I’d just leave her now. But two, she’s the only one who knows where we’re going, three, she’s the only one who knows what we may have to do when we get there, and four, she’s the only thing close to a wizard we have in our little band. Without her, we may as well go home and wait to be whitewashed, or for the world to sublimate, or whatever.” He began bandaging what he could see of the Nathauan’s wounds with scraps torn from her cloak.
“Argh, you do have a point with that,” grumped Arcie. “Well enough. To yon bloody barbarian village it are then ... and we’ll surely all be killed.”
Sam shrugged. “They’re good people ... we come seeking healing. Maybe it’s a good act to heal, even if it’s healing evil people.”
“Not for the likes of us, I doubt,” muttered Arcie, as Sam and the knight began carefully moving Valerie’s unconscious form onto Sam’s cloak to use as a stretcher.
“Blast and bother! This were my best suit, you know, almost mine own armor, and ‘tis all ruined, with me skin’s all a-blistered, my hair singed unrecognizable ...” He paused. “Sam? What are that under your tunic, there?” he asked, puzzled out of his self pity. The assassin glanced down at a large rip in his newly repaired tunic. A broken chunk of white showed. He tsked, and wrapped his scarf around it, covering a bleeding gash. His assassin training was still so strong he scarcely noticed even the fiercest of pain. He had been trained from the earliest age to ignore pain, for one stifled cry could be enough to give one’s position away.
“It’s just a rib, Arcie. Let’s move out. Get up, centaur, and help us carry the sorceress.”
They balanced the crumpled form of Valerie on the centaur’s back, with Sam and Blackmail on either side to prevent her from falling off, and Arcie hastening ahead to choose the most level ground and scan for danger.
“After this,” said the assassin, as they walked along, “we’ll have to go after that dragon.”
Arcie turned around to stare at him. “Have ye lost what small mind ye had, Sam? Yon great muckle lizard near killed us!”
Sam sighed. He had his own reasons for wanting to rescue Kaylana, if she still lived... but once again he was going to have to convince the rest of the party.
Robin flicked his ears. “The Barigan’s right. We haven’t any idea where it’s gone, we don’t know if Kaylana’s alive anyway, and that dragon will surely slay us all if we encounter it again.”
Blackmail, however, looked in the direction the dragon had gone and raised his mailed fist silently, then looked at Sam, who managed a weak smile. His rib was starting to hurt, now that the shock of adrenaline was wearing off... There were still limits to assassin stoicism.
“You’re all for it, huh? Want to fight the dragon?” he asked. The helmet nodded determinedly. “Thanks, then. But I think we all have to go.”
“’Tis suicide, laddie,” insisted Arcie.
“It’s suicide if we don’t. We’re hurt pretty bad now, and we have to go to a bunch of barbarians who probably won’t be too pleased to see us anyway. If we survive this, what happens when we get hurt again? Who’s healed us, time and time again, as well as being more than a little handy with magic?” retorted Sam. “She’s our survival insurance. Maybe heroes can die trying, but I’m an assassin, and I like living.”
Arcie sighed. “Fah! As you will ... you win again. We’ll be going to rescue the lassie.”
“They won’t bother to rescue her, of course,” commented Fenwick. He had just received a report from Towser, who had been in magical contact with Lumathix and reported the Druid captured safely and the rest of the party severely injured. “They are evil, who care nothing for their comrades, and will fear to face the dragon. And thus will have to continue on across the Plains as best they can. Which of course will lead them right into the middle of my Company and Lord Tasmene’s men, two groups to close like the jaws of a trap ... the centaur will break and run for it, and we shall scatter the bodies of those villains into bloody fragments strewn about the Plains.” Fenwick took out his silver-etched longsword, the magical blade Truelight, Slayer of Darkness, and tested the edge with his thumb. The hilt pulsed in his hand as he thought of cleaving into the forces of darkness with its edge that could break any magical armor, through any spell. “Mindless overkill, some might say ... but I have already lost too much to these renegades. I will run no risks. Besides, the Company need the exercise.”
He smiled and sheathed the blade as he stood and went to saddle his warhorse.
They reached the edge of the camp shortly after noon and found it to be settled around a small river. The tall grass provided a good cover as they watched the barbarians below and debated what to do.
“I’m fair exhausted,” whispered Arcie. “Why don’t this sort of thing not happen in the night, as we’re awake?”
“There’s no time,” hissed Sam. “How’s Valerie?”
Blackmail put his helmet close to the sorceress’s pale face, then made a gesture with his gauntlet, palm down, shaken slightly. Sam translated-”Not good.”
“I can see their temple,” spoke up Robin. “There, in the center-that well or pool or something, with the carved stones about it, just like in the other camp, but smaller. One of the many founded by Ki’kartha the Heroine, after her marriage to the tribesman Sungrass and the recovery of the artifact of Mula, the Waterstone.”
The others looked at him in surprise, and he added, “Like in the ‘Canticle of the Water Lily.’ I know all the verses.”
“’Ware!” hissed Arcie suddenly. “They’re at bringing some fellow to yon pool!”
The others looked and saw the turquoise-robed clerics of the temple escorting a brawny barbarian man into the open-air sanctuary. He held his arm awkwardly, wrapped in bloody bandages-perhaps injured in a hunt.
While the silent villains watched from their hillside hideout, one of the priestesses, with much ceremony, dipped a silver ladle into the small pale blue pool, raised it over the man’s head a moment, then poured it on his arm. A brief blue shimmer seemed to engulf the wounded limb, then the fellow took off his bandage and flexed his perfectly healed arm. There were appropriate praises to the goddess, and the man strode out again.
“It l
ooks like that water is the stuff we need, then,” murmured Sam, wincing slightly; this hunkering in the grass wasn’t doing his broken rib a bit of good. He’d probably be dead in a few days from blood loss and infection.
But that was for later. “We’ll have to get some.”
“I don’t think they’ll just let us have it,” said Robin.
“We know these folk are very suspicious of outsiders and, being proud of their heritage, would likely consider it their heroic duty to kill us on sight.”
“We’ll have to steal some, then,” decided Sam. Arcie stood up, and tipped what was left of his hat.
“Ye can leave that one to me,” he said, with a broad grin.
The thief set off down the hillside, silent and unseen as only a thief can be. The others watched from the hill.
“He’s crazy,” muttered Sam after a bit. “That whole pool is in full view, even from here, and there’s priestesses everywhere. Even if he was completely magically invisi ble, they’d see his shadow.”
“Should we go after him?” asked Robin nervously.
Sam shook his head.
“He’s crazy, but he must know what he’s up to. I don’t want to mess up whatever he has in mind.”
Arcie stealthily made his way down to the barbarian encampment. This was tricky, of course; he was quite ob viously not a barbarian, not even a young one. Barbari ans and Barigans were not on very good terms; and Arcie was still sore from being used as a catty-ball by the Plainsmen in the west. In the past he’d also had a few tankards placed over his head in bars by visiting barbari ans of all kinds.
Considering his experiences Arcie can be pardoned for what he did next. He crept carefully to the edge of the sanctuary, hiding under a flap of a tent, and took out his sling. Then from another pouch he extracted the small, red-gold crystal he’d stolen from one of Fenwick’s men.
The man had said it was a fire-crystal, capable of creating some sort of magical blast; Arcie had heard of such things and seen a few in his time; it would have been nice to ask the man if he knew where to get any more, but at the time, the man was not in a position to tell anyone anything. That was one of the troubles with traveling with inherently violent people, he mused. The fire-crystal had been wrapped well in padding cotton, so Arcie thought it must be fairly fragile.
