Bloodstone

by Johannes, Helen C.

  ****

  Gareth rolled over and sat up slowly. The pressure on his shoulder had eased with the slow fade of voices, but he hadn’t attempted to raise his face from the moss until the weight lifted completely. Now he ran a hand down his shin, feeling gingerly over a lump forming across it halfway to his ankle. There was a companion lump on his other shin. The mark of a tree root, he discovered as his hand explored the ground on which he sat.

  The vapor of spruce pitch hung thick in the air. Needles pricked at his cheek when he shifted forward, and he brushed them away. He was in the trees now. He knew that well enough. What he didn’t know was how long he’d lain there. It seemed like hours, yet it couldn’t have been more than minutes since the intruders had awakened him, and even fewer since the Shadow Man had snatched him from the fire pit and flung him face down here.

  A bit of breeze licked up his back. Gareth shivered. Under his cloak, his tunic stuck to his skin. He peeled the fabric away and shivered again. Shifting his weight, he tried to untangle his cloak and wrap it around his body.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Gareth turned toward the voice. The Shadow Man spoke from perhaps two arm-lengths away, standing, Gareth decided. “No, sir.” He rolled to his hands and knees and started to rise.

  “Here.”

  Something hard nudged his shoulder. Gareth grasped it, found familiar indentations in the wood under his fingertips, and recognized his staff. He clung to it for a moment, holding on with both hands, leaning on it like a child leans on his cottage door after a wild run home in the dark.

  “Get up, boy, and saddle the horses.”

  Gareth raised his head. “Do you—do you think they’ll be back?”

  There was the clunk of tankard against pot, the delicate patter of sand grains drizzling from a lifted pack, then the Shadow Man’s voice paces away. “I don’t intend to wait and see.”

  The shivers that had retreated to Gareth’s stomach and coiled there, broke over his body again. He was not home. He had no home. He was here in the dark, in the wild, terrifying place called the Wehrland, indentured to a shadow. He rose slowly, muscles he didn’t know he possessed aching in protest. “Yes, sir.”

  ****

  The Imposter of Nolar woke with a start. He was sweating, and his nightshirt had molded itself to his back. Flinging off the bedclothes, he sat up. His heart galloped in his chest, pumping like that of a man in the throes of coupling. Tightness in his loins told him he’d been dreaming of just such a pastime. With the gem cutter’s daughter, no doubt. That randy cock, Rees, by practically mounting the girl, had planted in his mind the feel of her young body writhing beneath him.

  For a moment, he wondered if he should have chosen Pumble as his medium. The Imposter of Nolar grimaced. That sack of gelatinous fat was too slow, too stupid for his purposes. Rees would have to do, for now.

  A sensation of heat in the middle of his breastbone captured his attention. He tugged the pouch free of his nightshirt and shook the crystal into his hand. It lay in his palm like a coal, hot, dark, and glowing faintly orange at the ragged edges.

  The Imposter of Nolar’s skin crawled. With a wordless gasp, he flung the crystal to the bedding. He scrabbled against the carved headboard and crouched, back pressed to the wood, staring at the knot of blackness filling the column.

  It isn’t possible! He can’t have survived! No one could have. He himself had survived, but it was the crystal that had saved him—the crystal column and his knowledge of it.

  The Imposter of Nolar straightened, emboldened by the thought. The sons of Koronolan were only human, after all—pathetically, stupidly human. Even if the Dragonkeeper had survived the destruction of Drakkonwehr and the fall of Herrok-Eneth, the curse should have made his life a living hell.

  The Imposter of Nolar smiled. Even the Demon Master of Beggeth couldn’t have laid on a better curse. And he’d done it in a matter of seconds, too. In the seconds that mattered before Drakkonwehr and the pit erupted around them.

  He peered at the crystal again as the glow went out of it. The darkness within dissipated, like a cloud of smoke caught by a breeze. It lay like a column of water on the bedding, its facets reflecting what little light seeped between the window shutters.

  He spoke a word, and colors rippled from the ragged edges. He reached for it, found it cool to the touch, and slid it into his palm. What did you see, Rees? What did you really see?

  If the Dragonkeeper were alive, that would alter things—but not too much. He still had the crystal and the Dragon Chant that ambitious little slut had stolen for him years ago. The fool! If only she hadn’t reached for the gems too soon. Well, he would have new ones when Rees returned. And he would have Master Brandelmore’s bride.

  He smiled, picturing himself asking, “Well, my dear, would you like to ride the Dragon?” She could hardly refuse. No woman alive could resist spreading her legs for a chance to couple with the Beast. Even if it killed her.

  Chapter Eight

  Just before dawn, Pumble located the single willow and the trail running beside it. The group turned their weary horses westward and followed the path down into a valley and along a river—the River Ar, Tolbert said between coughs. As milky green as the glacier it sprang from, the Ar rushed headlong over rocks, chilling the riders with vapors still rising from its little falls, vapors the sun wouldn’t burn away for hours yet in the narrow valley depths.

  The cold—and the dampness—seeped into Mirianna’s extremities, penetrating to the bone. She didn’t complain because the frequent mental reminders to flex her fingers and curl her toes kept her from dwelling on the night’s wealth of unanswered questions. The voice still lingered around the edges of her consciousness like a dimly remembered dream.

  Or nightmare.

  Mirianna shivered. The Wehrland had that effect on people, she told herself. Yet she hadn’t been entirely frightened. The man—or whatever it was—had somehow stopped her horse from bolting. She was sure of that. And they’d received true directions. But the boy had vanished into thin air, and he’d stood only across the fire pit from Pumble. Had they seen what they thought, or not?

  She shook her head, trying to clear a strange, sudden brightness from her vision when she realized it was sunlight. She sat up straighter and blinked at the shafts of golden haze slanting into the canyon. Ahead, the Ar turned a slight bend and poured into a wider, gently rolling valley.

  “There’s Ar-Deneth!” Tolbert pointed toward a distant cluster of thatch and shake roofs. He rubbed his hands, blew on them, and rubbed them again. “I can’t wait to taste a mug of Ulerroth’s ale.” He touched Mirianna’s hand. “It’s really the best, you know.”

  “I’ll settle for a leg of mutton, hot, with gravy and dumplings,” Pumble said as his hands conjured the dish in the air. “Lots and lots of dumplings.” He looked at Mirianna and sighed. “I wouldn’t even care if it was old goat.”

  She laughed, and then, throwing off her hood, laughed again. The Wehrland was behind them, the sun beat freely on their shoulders, and all the comforts of home—beds, hot food, chairs and tables—lay waiting in the village ahead. Grinning, she said, “I’ll take anything hot.”

  “I want something with flesh.” Rees materialized at her side. “Flesh and—” His gaze swept over her body. “—blood.”

  Mirianna’s grin faded. Not all of the beasts, echoed from the back of her mind. Rees had been so silent these last hours she’d forgotten he rode behind her. Now his expression told her precisely what thoughts had occupied his mind while her figure had filled his sight. Suppressing a shiver, she looked at him coldly, and turned her gaze forward.

  Pumble urged his mount into a trot. “You can have your women. Just don’t charm the cook till she’s made my mutton.”

  Tolbert heeled his chestnut. “And leave off the serving maid till she’s poured my ale.”

  Rees brayed out a laugh. “Not if I get there first!” Flashing a wicked grin at Mirianna, he lashed his horse into a
gallop.

  Mirianna held her gelding in check. Scowling, she watched Rees speed past her father. His raucous laughter echoed over the hoof beats while Pumble whipped his horse and, for a few hundred yards, gave chase until Rees, still laughing, outdistanced him. Her eyes narrowed as she watched his shape grow small against the cluster of roofs. This was his territory, land where he felt secure. In the Wehrland, he’d been as frightened as she. More so, perhaps. Now he had nothing to fear.

  A shiver rattled through her despite the sun, despite the prospect of hot food, beds, and people. Despite being out of the Wehrland.

  ****

  Gareth ran his hands gently down the pack mare’s front legs, inspecting each in turn. His palms lingered on the fetlock, cupped the right one, returned to the left. “It’s hot.” Lifting the foot, he laid it on his thigh. The mare nuzzled his hip, and he patted her shoulder before probing the hoof with his fingertips.

  A shadow blocked the sun’s generalized glow, a shadow separate from the bulk of the mare Gareth leaned against. “Well?”

  “A stone...here, I think.” Gareth drew his knife and, using his left index finger and thumb as a guide, slid the blade between the shoe and the hoof. Stone and steel scraped. His tongue curled over his upper lip as he backed off, angled the blade slightly, and probed again. It was a small pebble, the size of a dried pea. He caught an edge with the point of his blade and carefully pried the stone out.

  Once free, it rolled between his fingers and bounced off the toe of his boot. My boot. One of a pair the Shadow Man had selected for him from Ulerroth’s store of goods abandoned in rooms due to either the untimely death or hurried departure of the owner. The boots were large, and his ankles, unaccustomed to being leather-clad, were already rubbed raw, but Gareth didn’t mind. They were boots, not rough-hewn wooden shoes or leggings held in place with thongs. They were boots such as those he’d helped remove from the feet of guests at the White Boar Inn, guests who had gold in their pouches and coin to give a helpful lad.

  Sheathing his knife, he released the mare’s hoof, then bent and dusted the tops of his boots. Before straightening, he felt once more of the mare’s fetlock. “I’ll put a poultice on it. She’ll be good as new in the morning.”

  “The morning!” The Shadow Man’s boots crushed pebbles and the sunlight returned, full and warm, as his master strode several steps away.

  Gareth stood listening to the coo of a dove. A breeze flirted with his face, touching it lightly then retreating. It bore a heavy scent of clover, sweet and not far away. The mare snuffled and raised her head. He stroked her neck, enjoying the warmth of the sun radiating from her skin. It was calm and pleasant here, and the warmth soaked into his body and tugged at his eyelids. He leaned his cheek against the mare and yawned.

  A human shape blocked the sunlight and Gareth started when it spoke. “We’ll rest her till dusk. That’s all we can afford.”

  “But—”

  “This is the Wehrland, boy.” The dark shape swelled, swirled, and vanished into the glare of the sun.

  Gareth flinched from the sudden brightness. He heard his master stride across the uneven ground, heard the squeak of leather pack straps being tugged loose, and recognized in their sound the same impatience evident in the Shadow Man’s voice. And the same something else, Gareth thought as he felt along the mare’s withers for the fastenings of her burden. Not fear, but something akin to it that made his stomach ball into a tight, hard knot. Sweat bloomed under his armpits as he remembered the voices in the night, the intruders.

  “We—we’ve gone too far already for them, those people last night, to follow us, haven’t we?” he said, fumbling with a knot.

  Nearby, a pack crunched to the ground. “If they went to Ar-Deneth.”

  And if they didn’t? But the Shadow Man said no more. Gareth tugged at the mare’s pack, freed a sack of grain and lowered it to the ground, asking instead, “There were—there were only four, weren’t there?”

  “Did you count their voices?”

  “Not then, but...later, when I had a little time to think.” Gareth unpacked another sack of grain. “There were just four, weren’t there?”

  The Shadow Man grunted, as if shifting a heavy load. “Yes.”

  Gareth unfastened another strap. Four was not a large number. Too many to deal with at once, perhaps, but not as large a number as, say, forty. There were four, and they’d frightened him, especially the loud one who’d stayed back on his horse. The one who’d come in close—Gareth wrinkled his nose. He could still smell the odor attending that one. There had been a third who coughed. And the fourth...

  He scowled, but the memory refused to change despite its impossibility. Lowering another bundle to the ground, he straightened slowly and laid his hand on the mare’s withers. “One of them...one of them was a woman, wasn’t it?”

  For two full breaths, his master neither spoke nor moved. Then his boot crushed a pebble. “Yes.”

  Gareth listened to him stride away, presumably to tend to Ghost. He wanted to ask why a woman would be traveling in the Wehrland, but the terseness of his master’s reply told him the Shadow Man wouldn’t welcome the question. At least, not now. He trailed his fingers through the mare’s mane and patted her shoulder. “Here now, lass, let’s get your leg looked to.”

  ****

  The man watched the shadow of a cloud run across the rocky clearing. Clumps of grass waved their heads gently in the breeze. Below his perch, in a narrow but level patch of grass, earth, and sandstone, the two pack horses, Ghost, and the boy’s dun-colored mount stood side by side, nose to tail, flicking away black-winged flies. Now and then, the mare lifted her bandaged foot or sniffed at it. Amid the gear, about ten feet away, the boy lay sleeping in the afternoon sun, a sack of grain for a pillow.

  The man flung away the blade of grass he’d twisted into knots and broke off a fresh one.

  Admit it, the Voice in his head said. It’s not the horse going lame that’s bothering you. It’s the woman, isn’t it?

  If it was a woman.

  The she-cat in a woman’s form? Don’t be a fool. There was no magic in those four.

  Those three, he amended. He let the twisted blade of grass slip through his gloved fingers. I’m not sure about the female.

  So you ran, didn’t you? Just like before. Just like always...when you’re not sure.

  Damn you! This is the Wehrland. It’s not—

  Drakkonwehr?

  The man shuddered. He snapped his eyes shut, but the image of flames penetrated his eyelids anyway, leaping up hugely against the delicate skin. Yellow-orange, hungry and hot, they ate through the thin wall of memory and he saw, for the millionth time, the rock-hewn tunnel filled with sulfurous yellow smoke, the barred oak door, and the black granite pit...

  Sweat dripped from his hair, stinging his eyes. He swiped his tunic sleeve across his face. In the light of the single wall torch, he saw—and dismissed—the smear of red on his hand. Better he should suffer than his men. After all, he was the damned fool who’d been tricked into fighting his way back into his own fortress. The Drakkonwehr guardsmen couldn’t help being spell-struck, but if more came between him and the mage who’d entranced them, he’d willingly knock their heads. Too bad that broken turret stone had roused the gatehouse. He and Errek might have had time to—

  What? Find Ayliss?

  His gut clenched. He couldn’t think about her—what she may have done—now. The handful of men he’d sent to assault the gate would distract the guardsmen for only so long. Better for Errek—for both of us—that we concentrate on the mage.

  The sound of rushing footsteps brought him swiveling to his feet, shield up. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the ancient double-edged Sword of Drakkonwehr.

  His best friend—and second in command—Errek Eolen rounded the corner. “I’ve bolted the tunnel door. I don’t think the guards know we’ve made it down here.”

  He blew out the breath he’d been holding. The yellow ha
ze stirred, stinging his eyes and nostrils. He dropped back into a crouch. “Get down. The tunnel’s full of dragon’s breath.”

  Bending his large frame, Errek shuffled closer. “Durren—the Sword—look! Does that mean the mage has raised the beast?”

  The large bloodstone embedded in the intersection of hand guard, blade, and hilt glowed softly, a dark, deep red. It knows we’re close. A thrill shivered along his nerves, but he kept his voice level. “I haven’t felt any tremors.”

  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the heavy, sulfurous air, gauging its movement—first toward the door, then away—until, in the enclosed space and the darkness of his mind’s eye, he saw the tunnel walls expanding and contracting...like something long...leathery...and alive! Forcing his eyes open, he shoved away from the wall and panted.

  “What did you see?” Errek’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “Tell me—was it Ayliss?”

  “No.” He sucked in hot air. “I don’t know where she is.” That was true enough. Despite the second sight his Drakkonwehr blood gave him, he could divine no more than that his sister was within the fortress. But I can guess, Ayliss. Damn you, I can guess!

  “We have to find her.”

  “Later.” He caught Errek’s arm. “The dragon’s stirring. We have to stop the mage first.” He nodded toward the door. “Think your axe’ll open that?”

  “Three strokes—if there’s no spell on the wood.”

  “There won’t be.” When the big man shot him a questioning look, he stifled a sigh. He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain how his whole plan relied on the little he remembered of Owender’s History of the People. He wished—again—he’d paid more attention to the scrolls, but it had always been the Sword that drew his hand and his heart. Gripping it now, he recited, “‘True hearts and no fear, against a mage’s power, hold dear.’”