The Witch Awakening (Book One of the Landers Saga)

by Karen Nilsen

  I descended the other side cautiously, conscious that any noise I made could alert Roland’s assassin to my presence. The realization came to me suddenly that I might find a whole band of men, not just one man. I swallowed at the thought and froze for a moment before I pushed myself onward. I had to avenge Roland, lest this fiery rage in my gut consume me.

  After slithering backwards for several minutes, I landed with a soft thump on the blessedly flat surface of a small plateau, much like the place we had camped last night. Dusting my hands, I glanced around. Huge rocks dotted the ground, obscuring my view--there could be men concealed dozens of places, and I likely wouldn’t know it until they attacked.

  A rain of stones hit the ground, and I jumped, sword already in hand. Gerard landed behind me, the zealously polished gleam of his distinctive helmet pike unmistakable, and I relaxed.

  “That was a hell of a climb,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t have followed me then.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “You should have stayed with your men.”

  “You should have stayed with your men. Merius, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Avenging Roland.”

  “You’re a clever ass, but you don’t have any damned sense sometimes. Good God, what if all of us had decided to avenge him? Damn it, you didn‘t see me breaking ranks to go charging up the mountain God knows where. That is, until I saw you doing it. You‘re going to get us both killed . . .”

  “Shh.” I touched his arm--a falling rock bounced somewhere close by. We both listened for a tense moment, then heard the scuffle of movement over rough terrain. Echoes confused the sound, and I couldn’t tell from which direction it came. Gerard and I glanced at each other, then, without speaking, we both hunkered in the shadow of the mountain, our backs flush with the stone. The scuffling became distinct footfalls, and then I heard the staccato mutter of someone trying to talk softly in SerVerinese. It was a sharp-edged, harsh language which did not lend itself well to whispering, and the speaker’s words reverberated off the stone walls.

  At that instant, two men in the black and silver uniform of the SerVerinese army rounded the edge of the nearest rock, not twenty yards from us, glinting scimitars drawn. My stomach dropped like a sandbag, the mountains looming too close for a moment and then receding rapidly, so rapidly I felt dizzy and slightly unreal. The men were too close to reach for our bows, so I reached for my sword instead, Gerard following suit.

  They looked like assassins, with their sleek uniforms of battered black leather and silver fastenings. They even wore black masks like assassins, masks that hid all but the gleams of eyes and teeth. Father suddenly said Lift your blade, Merius, and quit gaping. Your whole right side is open, damn it . . . even here, a sea away, in the midst of battle, I heard him. Was he inescapable? Gritting my teeth, I charged forward, mindless action the quickest way to silence him for the moment.

  Gerard yelled something, probably calling me a reckless ass, but at that instant, the taller SerVerinese lunged, his scimitar meeting my sword in a deafening clang that drowned all other sound. With the echoes, it reverberated like a hundred blades ringing against each other, an invisible army fighting around us. A ghost army, with echoes for weapons.

  A madness seized me at the sound, the anger that had propelled me over the mountain bubbling to the surface and flaring to flames that blistered my skin. My rage would burn me alive, but not before I killed this slaving bastard. No matter who he was, the man I faced was SerVerinese, and a SerVerinese had slain Roland. Therefore, this man must die.

  I tried to stab the man, and he leapt back, nimble despite the uneven ground. I swore and lunged at him. He made a quick, sharp swing at me, his blade coming within inches of my chest. I swallowed, my heart pounding so fast and loud in my ears that I couldn’t hear single beats anymore. Instead of moving forward to engage while I was stunned, he retreated again. Why did he do that? Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other SerVerinese turn and run off, Gerard in pursuit. They vanished around the edge of a large rock, and I tried not to be distracted by the distant clangs of their swords. So I moved towards my opponent, this time holding my sword low, at a wide angle to block the blow I knew was coming. He chuckled and swung his scimitar with such force that he almost knocked the sword hilt from my grip. Then he gracefully jumped away, in retreat yet again. He was baiting me, the son of a bitch. Father had used a similar technique several times when he was in the training salon with me. You’re a hothead, Merius. You’re always too eager to attack, and someday an opponent will use that to wear you out or draw you into an indefensible position.

  Cursing, I ran at the man, blade extended, Father‘s voice still tormenting me. You idiot--he’ll slaughter you. All he needs to do now is step aside and catch you with a draw cut to the back. The instant before my sword tip made contact with my opponent’s midsection, he did indeed step aside to my right, just as the shadow father in my mind said he would. I’ll show you, damn it. I lunged to my left, just in time to miss his scimitar slicing my back. As it was, the curved tip of his blade caught me in the side, pushing my chain mail through my gambeson and shirt and into the tender flesh between my ribcage and my hip. There was no pain in the first shocked moment, then a dull throbbing that time would whet to sharp burning. Blood flowed warm and sticky on my skin, but I dared not look down, lest I lose my nerve at the sight. Instead, sensing the SerVerinese drawing in for the kill, I spun around, blade fully extended. My sense was correct. My opponent was a mere couple yards from me, preparing to stab me in the back. My sword hit his scimitar with as much force as I could muster, and he grunted, stumbling backwards, his midsection exposed as he threw his arms out to catch himself. I vaulted over the ground and jammed my sword so far in his stomach that the point hit bone. I faltered then, sickened by the enraged force of my blow. Through my sword hilt, I had felt the steel of the blade vibrate when it scraped his skeleton. Gagging, I tore off my helmet and threw it down before I propped my hands on my knees. The ground swayed in front of me.

  “Barbarian filth,” the dying man spat in SerVerinese, then choked.

  A gut wound, a particularly nasty way to go. He could lay here for hours on the hard rocks before he died. Roland, on the other hand, probably hadn’t even known what hit him. Roland, who would never laugh, tumble a girl, hunt, or fight again. Roland, who had crouched by his shield, trying to shave with his dagger just scant hours ago. Roland, who Gerard and I had jested with so many times. Wait, Gerard--where was Gerard? I glanced around. Nowhere in sight. I listened for any sound of fighting, but all I heard was the wind, and then the metallic scrape of a sword against the rock, much the same sound I imagined my sword would have made when it scraped against the SerVerinese soldier’s bone . . . sourness rose in my throat, and I gagged again, desperate not to retch, even here where there was no one else to see me. Father had never retched in the midst of battle, I was sure of it.

  Too late, I wondered what had made the metallic sound. Then I saw the flash of the dying man’s scimitar as he raised himself on his elbow, panting, and swung at my legs. I jumped aside, tripping on my own feet, clumsy with surprise. Blinding white sparks exploded before my eyes as I fell, blinding white pain soon following, radiating from the back of my neck and skull before everything went mercifully black.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Someone nudged my side, hard. “All right, all right, Father,” I muttered. “I’ll get up in a minute.” Then I rolled over, expecting the softness of my pillow against my cheek. Instead, I choked on a mouthful of foul-tasting sand and pebbles. “What the hell?”

  “Up, barbarian,” someone said in crude Corcin. “Up, so I kill you like man, not beast.”

  I opened my eyes, then swore. The hard light of the sun pierced my eyeballs. I groaned. My head throbbed. It hurt to think. Evidently, I’d fallen and knocked my head on a rock. Why had I taken my helmet off? What an idiot thing to do.

  A SerVerinese soldier stood bef
ore me, a dark shape against the light. His uniform blinded me in spots. It appeared to have more silver on it than the uniforms of the man I had killed and Gerard’s opponent, which likely meant he was the commander. So where were Gerard and his opponent? Dead . . . if Gerard died . . . oh hell . . .

  “Up, damn you,” the SerVerinese commander said then, prodding me with his foot. “Or I kill you as you lay.”

  I grabbed for my sword, only to grasp an empty scabbard. The SerVerinese chuckled grimly. “After I kill you, I bury your blade with my brother. You kill him, I kill you, barbarian, and leave your bones for vultures.”

  “Who are you? If you’re killing me, I want to know.” Maybe I could distract him long enough to retrieve my sword.

  “No matter who I am. My name too good for Cormalen filth to hear.”

  “You’re a fine example of your people’s diplomacy--with a manner like that, you‘ll soon be an ambassador for Emperor Tetwar.” I pushed myself off the ground till I knelt on the stone. The world spun around me, my head so light it could float away. If I had drunk a whole bottle of my father’s whiskey in one sitting, I wouldn’t have felt this ill. Blood still oozed from the cut in my side, and the sight of it made me want to retch. I almost wished this nameless SerVerinese would kill me and put an end to it.

  “No mocking me.” He kicked my ribs right above my cut, and I groaned, almost falling back to the ground.

  “If you want me standing, you’d best let me do it,” I hissed, inhaling sharply at the pain in my side. I glanced around, frantic for my sword. It was tucked in the SerVerinese’s belt. Then something cold prickled against my neck, and I swallowed. He had the edge of his scimitar around my throat. The blade bit into my skin.

  “You die now,” he said.

  I shut my eyes, shaking. What would come next? Unbearable pain, gasping for breath, and then utter darkness? Would that be the end? How could that be the end? I cursed myself for letting my mind wander in chapel so much. I tried to remember a prayer but none came. Instead, I remembered Safire, the burned cedar scent of her hair, her wicked chortle of a laugh, her witch touch, her impossibly long-fingered hands tight against my back and neck when I kissed her. “Safire,” I whispered, and her name sounded more like a prayer to me than anything I’d ever learned in chapel. “Safire,” I repeated, my voice stronger.

  There came a dull thwack, the sound of an arrow hitting a target, and the SerVerin soldier toppled against me. I fell to the ground, his scimitar landing with a clatter beside us. The fall knocked the wind from me, and I lay motionless for a moment, stunned that I still lived. Then I felt a liquid warmth soaking the sleeve of my gambeson--SerVerinese blood. I swore and rolled over, grabbing my sword from the dead man‘s belt. I was as unsteady as a toddling babe getting to my feet.

  Gerard slung his bow over his shoulder and jumped down from his perch on a rock, some twenty yards distant. We looked at each other; his face was in shadow under his helmet, and I suddenly felt unreal, as if he had turned into a stranger that I‘d have to get reacquainted with. I glanced down at my sword, and it took me a moment to remember that it was an ancestral blade, my great-grandfather’s sword, and that my great-grandfather had been a Landers, as I was. Landers--yes, my name was Merius of Landers, son of Mordric and Arilea. I held out my hands, squeezed my nails into my palms until I felt pain. The pain was real enough, but distant somehow, as if some other Merius were feeling it. I took a deep breath. Was this what almost dying felt like, this abrupt return to a world that should be familiar but now seemed like something seen through poorly made glass?

  Gerard approached slowly, almost warily, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of me either, his boots crunching on the loose stones and pebbles. He paused near one rock and bent down to pick up my helmet. I retrieved my sword and sheathed it, my hands trembling.

  “Good shot, Gerard,” I said as loud as I dared. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

  He handed me my helmet before he clapped my shoulder. I clapped his shoulder back. In lesser circumstances, we might have given each other a bear hug, but in dire straits such as these it was best to be stoic, lest we be weakened by a show of emotions.

  He cleared his throat finally. “The man I fought drew me off a good ways before I finally killed him. As I was making my way back, I heard some sounds like there were other men around, so I climbed up on that rock to get a decent view. That’s when I saw you and that bastard. Sorry it took me so long to shoot--I couldn’t get a clean shot till he moved. Anyway, I think if we head over to the edge there,” he said, pointing to right side of the plateau, “we can find the path. That’s where they shot Roland from, the edge of the plateau. The path must come out under it somewhere.”

  I nodded. “We need to get back to the men.” I paused, not knowing what to say next. “I’m sorry I broke ranks. I was angry when you started following me, but I’m sure glad you did now.”

  He met my gaze, his eyes as old as our fathers. “I’m glad too, Merius. I couldn’t make it here if both you and Roland were gone. This is a hellish place to be without comrades.”

  “I know what you mean. Let’s get back to the men, while there‘s still light enough to find a place to camp and do what we can to honor Roland.”

  He nodded, and I clapped his shoulder again before we started to pick our way over the rocks, back to the path and our fellow warriors.

  Chapter Eighteen--Mordric

  Dinner was still on the table when I returned home shortly after sunset, so I made my way to the banquet hall without even removing my boots. Selwyn, Whitten, Talia, and Dagmar all glanced up at the sound of my heels on the floorboards, the two men rising before I waved them to sit down again. Usually I liked to hold to the formalities, but not when I was half starved after a day of riding.

  I slung my cloak across the back of the chair at the head of the long table and sat, two maids instantly at my elbows pouring water and wine and filling my plate. I drained the water tumbler before I attacked the food. Roasted suckling pig, bits of buttered yam, new peas, crusty rolls to soak up the drippings.

  "How was your journey, Mordric?" Talia asked. Selwyn had inherited her bothersome, fussy manners, which included asking pointless questions at the most inopportune times, all under the guise of politeness.

  I wiped my mouth with the napkin, looked up, grunted an unintelligible response, and returned to the food.

  Only a fool would be encouraged by this, but Talia was a fool. "Oh, that's too bad. The roads have been all mud this spring, almost impassable. We went to Calcors the other day in the coach, and it was scandalous, the amount of mud the horses kicked up. And after Ebner's fine paint job, too--the coach was ruined. It looked a disgrace, I tell you. Like some peasant's cart. I was embarrassed to ride in it. I don't see why they can't cobble the shore road . . ."

  "Mother, the expense . . ."

  "I don't see why. It's just a few rocks. The whole of Calcors is cobbled, every little dirty alley and peddler's street, yet they can't--"

  "The merchants pay for that, and there's plenty of cheap labor for street crews in the city. We'd have to sacrifice our tenants several weeks a year if we wanted cobbled roads. Better to buy a new coach."

  "But cobbled roads would look so much nicer." She pouted, an obnoxious gesture for a woman her age, for a woman of any age as far as I was concerned.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said then. "The roads were dry and hard today. Not a speck of mud except in the low spots." I shoved a forkful of pork in my mouth.

  "But you just said it was muddy."

  I shook my head, chewing furiously. I had never said anything about it being muddy, hadn't said anything at all in fact, but she could manufacture an entire statement out of a neutral grunt. Damned harpy--best to ignore her.

  "Sir?" Selwyn asked after several moments.

  This time, I didn't bother looking up. "What now?"

  "I wasn't going to mention this at dinner, but it's rather serious and likely req
uires your attention. We were actually thinking of sending you a message at court, but as you were returning anyway . . ."

  "Your forethought is almost as remarkable as your circumlocution."

  "Thank you, sir."

  I raised my eyes, my fork halfway to my mouth, and looked at him. He appeared slightly pleased, in a pompous sort of way. Poor devil--he had been a plodding scholar, neither good nor bad. He usually understood Merius's sarcasm, but not mine. I let it go.

  "So, what were you going to tell me? Spit it out."

  "Dagmar's sister . . ."

  "Safire," Dagmar prompted.

  "Yes, I remember," I said impatiently. As if I could forget. "What about her? Has she recovered?"

  "Well, yes, sir, but--"

  "But what?"

  "Well, she's left, sir."

  "What do you mean, she's left?"

  "She ran right out the front door and disappeared down the main road yesterday. Most unladylike display I've ever seen, skirts flying everywhere. She almost knocked me down in the hall," Talia sniffed.

  "She wasn't feeling herself," Dagmar said. "She'd recovered her voice and her wits, but she was in shock from Father's illness and Whitten's," here her eyes narrowed as she glanced over at Whitten, who was staring at his empty plate, "Whitten's wickedness."

  "Now, sweet," Selwyn said, "he didn't mean any harm. He thought . . ."

  "I don't care what he thought. It was wicked what he did, drunk or not, husband or not. He agreed . . . well, never mind what he agreed. It's not fit for the dinner table. You know what you've done. But let me tell you this now, if anything happens to Safire before we find her, I'm blaming you."

  Whitten swallowed but didn't say anything, still staring at his plate. I put down my knife and fork, finally giving up any hope of eating in peace. I had a pretty good idea what Dagmar was talking about, but there was time to throttle Whitten later. I should have known--the feckless drunk had never been able to keep his paws off the serving wenches, much less some comely girl who wasn't in her right mind to say no. I rubbed my eye with my palm and sighed. Another long night, after two long months at court without Merius to assist me at council. And I wanted to walk the property tomorrow, maybe hunt a stag. Damn it.