The Banished of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  “I am very aware of that fact, yes.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  “Yes. Here I am.”

  “How can I serve you, Lady Maia?” He leaned forward and the chair squealed under his weight.

  “I am not looking for a servant, Jon Tayt. You said yourself you want nothing to do with kings and intrigues.”

  “Where are you bound, lass?”

  Somehow, Maia felt she could trust the hazel eyes that stared down at her. The Medium had brought her to Argus. It had led her to this man.

  She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. “Can I trust you, Jon Tayt?”

  He stroked his pointed beard and then scratched the fleshy underside of his chin. It made a raspy sound. His eyes turned stormy as he rested his hands on his belly. “I have no love for your father. I have no love for any man. Whether or not you choose to trust me is entirely up to you.”

  She wanted to look at the kishion, to read the expression in his eyes, but she worried it would be interpreted as a sign of weakness.

  “I will ask again. How can I serve you, Lady Maia?” the hunter repeated, his voice sincere.

  “I need you to bring me safely through Dahomey. It would be best if we traveled through roads less frequently used by others.”

  “Easily done. Dahomey is a large, broken kingdom. You want me to take you back to Comoros?”

  Maia shook her head. “Just to the borders of Paeiz or Mon. That is all I will ask of you.”

  “Ack,” he chuckled gruffly. “If we are going to travel that far, you will need some new clothes to survive these mountains. It is my trade to guide folk through these mountains safely. I have the gear and plenty to spare. The mountains do not care figs whether you were born of noble parents or what kind of fancy boots you wear. They only respect those who come prepared. And right now, you are not.” He eased up from the chair. “Better come with me. Bring the tray. Argus. Chut.”

  The boarhound rose from its position and sidled up next to the hunter. As Jon Tayt shoved the door open, the wind bustled in and made the fires all leap and dance. Excitement burned inside of Maia. She was grateful for finding the hamlet, grateful for the knowledge and expertise that might make the challenge before her possible. She held the door for the kishion, who exited silently behind her and followed them.

  Jon Tayt stopped them on the other side of the massive boulder. He raised his arm and pointed toward the jagged cliff face silhouetted against the sky. Stars painted the sky with their profusion of jewels, but as Maia followed his arm, she saw other spots of light descending slowly down the mountainside.

  “You did not mention, my lady, that you were being followed.” His expression hardened.

  “I am. By the Dochte Mandar,” she said softly.

  Jon Tayt cursed under his breath. “Ack, that is a fine kettle of fish,” he muttered. “They are not easy men to kill. Best we hurry then.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mountain Storm

  Jon Tayt flung open a heavy wooden chest and began tossing different garments out of it haphazardly. The boarhound sniffed at several, its stout tail wagging vigorously as its master grumbled under his breath.

  “Fetch the tallest bow sleeve,” he barked to the kishion, gesturing to several hanging from pegs on the wall. “Several quivers as well. This is a good wool cloak.” He shoved it to Maia and continued rummaging. “Ah, a scarf, some gloves. You would be shocked to hear how many people lose fingers and toes, wandering these mountains. I knew a man who scratched his earlobe during a blizzard, and it came right off. By Cheshu, I do not jest you! Let me see.” He dug around some more and withdrew a long wool gown, dark burgundy in color. He snorted. “May even fit you. Put it on. We cannot waste time.”

  Maia looked around the tiny stone hut. It was hardly big enough for the three of them to remain standing upright in. Rather than a bed, there was a nest of bearskin furs shoved against one wall.

  Feeling ashamed to undress in front of the men, she turned around and began fussing with the lacings on the back of her gown, but the hunter rebuked her. “Put it on over your other gown, my lady. You will need more than one layer in these mountains. You can doff one of them later when the sun is blazing. Two cloaks is fine. If I could fit your feet into two boots, I would. Quickly now!”

  The kishion had fetched the bow sleeve from the wall and clutched two quivers. Jon Tayt scowled as he glanced around the tiny hut. “You have water flasks already. Dump the food platter in that sack over there. There is a large cheese in the cold barrel. Take it.” He went to the wall and grabbed two more hand axes, another long knife, and a sling with a pouch of pebbles. He snapped on two leather hunting bracers and a shooting glove. For a short, squat man he moved with efficiency and speed.

  Argus’s ears went straight up, and a low growl emerged from his throat. He stared at the door.

  “It’s either a bear or strangers afoot,” Jon Tayt groused. The kishion slid a knife from his sheath.

  “If you fancy a stronger blade, take what you can carry,” the hunter offered, nodding to the assortment of weapons suspended from the wall. He went over to a pack and began stuffing one of the bearskins from the floor inside it. He shoved it all the way in before grabbing a length of rope, a small iron skillet, a tinder stick, and several other strange devices that Maia did not recognize.

  The hound’s growl increased in pitch.

  Maia was securing the belt on the gown when Jon Tayt’s voice muttered, “Fffft. Douse the candle.”

  The kishion squeezed the burning wick and darkness enveloped them instantly. Only the glowing end of the snuffed candle remained, like a tiny Leering’s eye, and then it too was gone. The sound of the hunter’s boots was muffled by the packed dirt floor as he approached the door and pulled it open a sliver.

  Moonlight cut a slit down his wary face, his gaze staring into the darkness of the trees beyond. He waited cautiously, standing still, listening to the hiss of the wind through the door.

  Something heavy slammed into the door, shoving it all the way open. The hunter jerked away just in time as a body came crushing into the stone hut. It was a soldier, by the looks of his tattered tunic and sword as he sprawled onto the ground. The kishion knelt and knifed him soundlessly. The figure’s leg twitched once and was still.

  Jon Tayt stepped into the cool night air through the open door, hefting an axe, which he suddenly lifted and hurled. It spun end over end, and the blade struck another soldier in the chest, felling him instantly. Argus snarled and charged into the woods, launching himself at another soldier and bringing him down with a single bound.

  The kishion fled the stone hut next and sent his knife spinning through the air, into another of their pursuers.

  Jon Tayt went to the body of the man he’d killed and drew the axe away, stepping on the man’s leg to free it. Maia blanched, but she steeled herself and followed her protectors, raising the cowl as she went.

  “This way,” the hunter whispered. An arrow lanced by him, the shaft clattering against a nearby boulder or stone hut.

  “Argus, hunt!” Jon Tayt ordered, and he strode up to Maia, grabbed her arm, and pulled her into the deeper shadows of the grove. The boarhound loped into the woods, snarling viciously. There was barking and growling and suddenly a man’s voice shouted in pain.

  Two more soldiers awaited them in the shadows.

  “They are yours,” the hunter said to the kishion, and he changed course, pulling Maia after him. The kishion needed no greater warning to lower his blades and thrust forward, engaging both men at once. As the hunter led Maia away from the scene, she heard a cough of surprise and grunts of pain as the two men strove against the kishion. Maia nearly twisted her ankle on a rock and tried to correct herself. They dodged through trees, heading toward the murmur of a brook somewhere to the right. The darkness was a shield for them.

  A s
hriek of pain sounded in the night, and moments later, Argus padded up next to them, panting.

  “One less hunter for us to face,” Jon Tayt said with a grim smile in his voice. “They probably have more than one, bad luck. Always best to have two of something if you can afford it. Argus here can take down a bear. You think I am joking. You will see if we meet one.”

  They reached the banks of the small brook, and Jon Tayt guided her to some round stones protruding from the waters and ushered her across. The trees swayed as the whipping wind picked up and began to howl, blowing icy tendrils at them. In a moment, the kishion leaped across the small brook and joined them. “Two more were watching the direction we fled, so I dispatched them as well.”

  The hunter snorted. “There are many trails off this mountain. If we take that one,” he said, pointing, “we will be trapped along the lake. I know of a cave farther down the mountain where we can find shelter, and the village of Roc-Adamour is at the base of the mountain. It is the crossroads in this Hundred. It will be difficult for them to track us if we go there first.”

  “How far?” the kishion asked, searching the trees behind them for signs of pursuers.

  “Before next sunset if we hurry. There are some more supplies I would like to obtain if we are going to travel the mountain ways. There is an inn there called the—”

  Lightning lit up the night sky with a brilliant fork of energy, blinding them all.

  “Not a cloud in the sky, by Cheshu,” Jon Tayt said with surprise, squinting. He stared up at the milky swarm of stars as another jagged line split across the mountain valley. The wind began to rush against them, increasing in pressure and ferocity.

  The kystrel burned against Maia’s skin, and she realized someone had summoned the storm with the power of the Medium. Coldness shot deep into her bones. Lightning struck a tree behind them, blasting it into fire. Argus howled and began barking.

  “Hush!” Jon Tayt said, cuffing the dog. Flames leaped up the bark of the pine and the branches were soon blazing. The wind kicked up the flames even higher, causing the ashes to spread and fan out, igniting other trees in the valley.

  “Lady Marciana!” shouted a powerful voice in the darkness. She recognized it, having heard it inside her mind at the Leering she had used to summon water. “Surrender to me now, or I will burn this village. I have chased you long enough, and my patience is at an end. You cannot leave this mountain, or all these people will die.”

  It was Corriveaux.

  The wind was so strong she had to clutch her borrowed cloak around her throat to prevent it from flying back into the brook. She felt mewling hisses all around her, sensed invisible shapes. Anger and fear battled within her.

  Another explosion of light came, and yellow tongues of fire began to devour another tree.

  “I grow impatient!” Corriveaux shouted into the night.

  Maia looked into the kishion’s eyes. He shook his head subtly no. Anguish filled her heart. How could she abandon the poor villagers? They had done nothing to deserve such a fate. Indeed, they had done naught but show her kindness. She had no doubt that Corriveaux’s threat was sincere, and her heart wrenched. Could she really spare her own life at the expense of theirs?

  She turned back to the village, intending to fight off the Dochte Mandar who threatened them.

  “I think no,” Jon Tayt said, gripping her arm to stop her. “Listen to the man’s voice. He was already going to murder them. We must flee down the mountain, my lady.”

  “I can stop him,” she said, trying to control her fear. The force of the Medium was building a charge in the air over her.

  She turned to face the blazing trees and summoned the power of the kystrel. Clenching her teeth, she unleashed her emotions and flooded the medallion with all of the darkest parts of herself—her rage, humiliation, fear, and despair.

  The wind began to shift immediately, drawn to her call, her summons.

  “No, Lady Maia!” Jon Tayt warned. “You will draw him down on us!”

  She felt the power building inside of her, rising like a tide. Her confidence increased, and she experienced that tickling giddiness that always made her want to laugh. “Stand away from me,” she said fiercely.

  The winds collided. Her leg muscles began to tremble under the mental weight of the magic she wielded. Another shaft of lightning struck near her, shattering a boulder into blackened fragments. The light did not blind her this time. She retaliated, sending a crackle of energy toward her enemy. With the kystrel burning around her neck, she could sense his presence, could see that he was very near, perched on a solitary rock by the shore of the lake. His eyes glowed silver, as did hers.

  I found you.

  She could sense his triumph as his thoughts clamped down on hers with the strength of iron bars. Maia wrestled against the compulsion to surrender. She pressed against him, shoving with all her strength. Another mind joined Corriveaux’s, latching around her like shackles. Then another mind. There were three of them, three Dochte Mandar.

  I have her. Kill her protectors, quickly!

  No! Maia shrieked in response, her will bulging against the prison they had created. Her shoulder burned, as if she were supporting a heavy weight over her head. The power drove her to her knees.

  “They see us!” Jon Tayt shouted. Soldiers charged at them from the burning mass of trees, heading toward the brook with bared swords.

  Maia grunted with exhaustion, and suddenly another shaft of lightning touched ground right in front of the advancing men, scattering them. A few had charred faces as they fell limp to the ground.

  You will obey me! Corriveaux’s thoughts screamed at her. Yield to me!

  I will not, Maia replied, her mind turning black with the strain of resisting him. She felt the veins on her face begin to pop and blood dribbled down her cheeks. The power flattened her until she was facedown on the ground. She could not hold them off. She could not disrupt their combined wills.

  We have her! We have her! Corriveaux’s thoughts blasted at her.

  An axe whirled and struck an oncoming soldier. Argus howled.

  Then a hand struck the back of Maia’s neck and she slumped into the dirt and forest debris. Her ears rang with a tinny sound, a high squealing noise that cut through the commotion.

  No! No! Corriveaux’s thoughts were desperate as her unconsciousness released her from his grip. She was grateful for that at least.

  Strong hands picked her up. Then she could remember nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lady Deorwynn

  Maia fidgeted with excitement, unable to keep from smoothing the front of her gown as she watched Pent Tower loom ever closer. The carriage wheels clacked and clattered on the rounded cobblestones, and though its progress was slowed by all the activity in the street, a mounted escort bearing the tunics of Comoros helped move things along. It had been almost four years since she had seen the castle, had been home, and her heart churned with excitement. She had mastered the language of the Pry-rians during her stay in Bridgestow and was looking forward to demonstrating her knowledge to her father. She was nearly thirteen and had grown physically as well as mentally during her long absence from her father’s court. She understood the workings of a Privy Council. She valued the advice of wise leaders and had listened diligently to their tutoring. Some of her decisions had been controversial, but her father had never countermanded her. She secretly hoped he would be proud of her accomplishments.

  The time away from her mother had been difficult. Because women were not permitted to write, Maia had only received verbal messages from her mother or notes dictated to scribes and then read to her, whereas she had received various writs, commands, and notes from her father. Though, by necessity, she pretended she could not read them when others were around, she had kept several of the documents in her chests. When she was alone, she delighted in reading them and tracing th
e ink scribbles with her finger.

  The sun crowned the keep as the carriage rumbled across the vast drawbridge, and she nearly leaped from her seat when it finally came to a halt. In the courtyard, amidst the dismounting knight-mastons who had escorted her, she saw the black cassock and wild hair of Chancellor Walraven, but he was also wearing a fur cloak that was brown and speckled with jewels, as well as the ceremonial stole of his office. He smiled as she waved through the opening of the carriage. A footman from the wall of onlookers briskly carried over a pedestal to help her descend.

  “Prevaylee, pria hospia, cheru Marciana,” the chancellor greeted her, bowing fully at the waist.

  “Prevaylee, Chancellor,” Maia replied with a deep curtsy. “If you believe I have forgotten my mother tongue, you need not fear it.”

  The chancellor beamed at her with pride. “You are old enough to dance around the maypole. Look at you!” She felt her cheeks grow warm at the sight of the affection in his eyes. “You are nearly a woman grown. The reports I have from your sojourn in Pry-Ree do you credit and justice. Your lord father is proud of you, child. You must believe that. He sent me to greet you in person and escort you to him in his solar.”

  “Thank you, Chancellor,” Maia replied. “I have missed seeing you.”

  He smiled at the compliment and extended his arm. She smoothed her tailored gown again before taking it, and then started across the inner courtyard. As they passed, she noticed the groomsmen emerge from the shadows to take care of the mounts and unharness the carriage. She nodded to them and smiled, winning surprised looks from several of the men. She had learned in Pry-Ree that attending to even the lowliest of servants would win her great esteem and improve the diligence of the servants’ work by making them feel acknowledged.

  After crossing the threshold of the keep with the chancellor, Maia’s eyes began to adjust to the dark. There were a few Leerings posted nearby to offer light, and she admired the ancient carved faces that, though pitted and worn, still showed smiling expressions. The sights and sounds of Comoros satisfied a deep hunger within her, and she longed to touch even the wooden doorposts and wainscoting. The palace was immaculately decorated, for her father was a fastidious man who tolerated nothing unkempt or slovenly. She swallowed her nerves.