First and Last Sorcerer

by Barb Hendee

  The gates began to swing open again; Wynn forgot Ghassan’s warning and ran toward her friends.

  Five city guards rushed out of the widening gap.

  Wynn jerked her hood back, exposing her hair and face. “Leesil! Here!”

  A flash of shock flattened his expression at the sight of her. That was all, and he immediately pulled Magiere along at a faster pace. Chap lunged ahead, nearly jerking Leanâlhâm off her feet, as the guards behind them shouted and drew swords.

  Ghassan suddenly rushed past Wynn.

  “This way,” he commanded.

  As Leesil reached them, Wynn saw his face more clearly within his hood. She choked. He looked sickened, gaunt, and desperate. He could take a good deal of punishment, of suffering, but he looked near the end of his endurance. Magiere was even worse, with her eyes unfocused and barely opened. Wynn caught only a glimpse of Leanâlhâm’s face, but never had a chance to look at Chap.

  A shriek erupted along the street.

  The first pursuing guard toppled in his run and struck the cobble to roll once. A snapped-off arrow shaft protruded from his thigh. He grabbed at it as other guards veered for the sides of the street.

  Somewhere above, Osha guarded everyone, but he couldn’t do so for long. And Wynn saw three more guards run out of the open gate.

  Wynn! Get on with this—now!

  She flinched at that voice in her head, its words coming in every language she knew, and looked straight into Chap’s sky blue eyes. This voice wasn’t like his trick of pulling broken spoken phrases out of others’ memories. She was the only one to whom he could speak like this after she’d fouled up a thaumaturgical ritual while journeying with him, Magiere, and Leesil.

  Chap looked better than the others, though filthy and lean.

  Ghassan ducked in and braced up Magiere’s other side. Leesil turned a glare on him, but Wynn regained her wits.

  “Follow me!” she half shouted, running a few steps forward.

  A snarl, the clatter of steel, and another shriek from an arrow’s strike sounded behind Wynn. At this, she knew Chane and Shade had rushed out to cut off the guards, with Osha covering the escape from above. She glanced back and slowed upon seeing the others struggling to follow. Chap had half turned and stopped, leaving Leanâlhâm stalled and waiting on him. He must have heard his daughter, Shade, entering the fight.

  “Chap, not now!” Wynn shouted at him. “Come on!”

  Thankfully, he saw Leanâlhâm looking back, and he turned to follow. As the others caught up, Wynn rushed into a side street, leaving Chane, Shade, and Osha to deal with any pursuit.

  * * *

  Chane had held back until Leesil dragged Magiere past where he and Shade were crouched. At the sight of the dhampir, hatred almost overwhelmed him. He’d expected trepidation, even anger, over how Magiere’s presence might affect his relationship to Wynn—but not this almost physical intensity. He froze in place as his sight widened until the night became brilliant in his eyes. He could feel his teeth begin to change.

  Holding his place was all he could do . . . until someone snarled and pulled his gaze.

  There was Shade watching him and still rumbling with a twitch of her jowls. She could not sense that feral beast within him straining to go after Magiere. No, she had only seen the look on his face, perhaps.

  Chane pushed the fury away and nodded to Shade, once again in control of himself.

  Before he could even look back up, the alarm sounded, long and loud. The gate reopened and five guards rushed out. The one in the lead shouted after the escapees. As Shade’s hackles stiffened and her ears flattened above bared teeth, Chane pulled his dwarven longsword.

  The lead guard’s shout broke with a cry of pain. When he tumbled across the street stones, a broken arrow protruded from his thigh.

  “Now!” Chane rasped, though Shade had already charged, and he raced out behind her.

  Other guards veered away from the first as more arrows cracked against stone, driving them into erratic dodging. Shade launched directly into one near guard backpedaling from an arrow’s strike. He went down under her weight and his head slammed sharply on the street. The red wrap around his skull did little to cushion the impact, and three more guards rushed out the imperial gate.

  Chane bit down against Wynn’s instructions not to kill.

  If only he could take a few heads, and in the terror of that, Osha could cover their escape. Instead, he charged the nearest guard, let the man take a slash with his curved blade, and blocked it aside with his own.

  Chane struck with his fist, and the man’s head whipped back under the crack of impact. The guard toppled as his sword fell and clattered. Chane turned as Shade lunged off the top of her own target.

  Two more guards came at them. One lost his footing as another black-feathered arrow struck his shoulder and he swerved in a spin. The second took an instinctive glance at the first, and Chane lunged one step and kicked into the second’s knee. In a yelp, the guard crumpled, and Chane kicked him in the head to put him down and out.

  Only the span of four or five breaths had passed.

  Shade shot past Chane in a straight line toward the three new oncoming guards, and he quickly rasped, “Wait!”

  Whirling, he peered up the street. Wynn and the others were already gone. Distant shouting pulled him the other way as Shade rounded his legs to watch the street.

  More guards high up on the palace wall called wildly down to those in the street, and these wore gold sashes. One ran along the wall top toward the gate, screaming the same few words over and over.

  Chane knew imperial guards would soon be pouring out of the gate. It was time for the next step.

  “Howl!” he told Shade.

  She did not even look up at him. She knew the plan as well as he did.

  A manic sound out of the back of Shade’s throat pierced Chane’s ears.

  “Run and lead!” he said.

  Shade took off up the mainway away from the palace and out in plain sight.

  Chane followed, hoping any emerging men fixed on him and her . . . rather than go hunting for Wynn.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dänvârfij froze in indecision upon the rooftop. She watched as her quarry came out of the imperial gates, and though their faces were obscured, hidden, or unclear, the deviant majay-hì was unmistakable. Before she could act, an alarm was sounded.

  Guards ran out after the prisoners—Dänvârfij’s stolen prisoners. Arrows flew down into the street from somewhere high across the mainway. Two unknown figures appeared and hurried off Léshil, Magiere, the quarter-blood girl, and Chap. Even then, Dänvârfij had stalled again at the appearance of a tall swordsman with another majay-hì—a black one fighting beside him.

  Three more guards ran out of the gate.

  Rhysís as well could only stare.

  Within moments¸ the swordsman and black majay-hì ran down the mainway, obviously trying to draw off any pursuit. Dänvârfij recognized those two who had fought beside an interfering little human “sage” back in Calm Seatt.

  Was Wynn Hygeorht somewhere down there as well?

  As the swordsman and black majay-hì vanished from sight, six imperial guards in gold sashes rushed out of the gate. How bitterly ironic, considering that Dänvârfij no longer needed even one to interrogate.

  “What action do we take?” Rhysís whispered.

  Magiere’s group was now too large in addition to there being several unknowns among them. For Dänvârfij to attack so many with only Rhysís would be a great risk, and there was no way to know if or when the swordsman and black majay-hì would double back to join their companions.

  “Report to Fréthfâre but keep to the rooftops,” she answered. “I will track our quarry to their final destination. We can then find a way to separate and capture the ones we want.”

  In that, they would need Én’nish, despite her near crippling wound. Even in the face of so much effort wasted, Dänvârfij took hope in her quarry’s pani
cked flight.

  Magiere had barely been able to walk, but she was out in the open. It was simply a matter of finding a way for her or Léshil to be taken alone. For the first time in a long moon, Dänvârfij breathed more easily.

  “Go,” she told Rhysís.

  He ran silently over the roof and leaped to the next one across an alley. As the imperial guards rushed off to harry the decoys, Dänvârfij slipped over the building’s front. She dropped easily to the street and headed after the true prey of this night.

  * * *

  Brot’ân’duivé crouched in stillness at the rooftop’s edge, his stiletto in hand with its blade flattened beneath his forearm to hide it from the moonlight. He absorbed the most unexpected events taking place below in the street.

  Wynn Hygeorht had a penchant for chaos, though it often hid something purposeful. Yes, he recognized her even though strangely cloaked. Her movements and gait were unmistakable, and the others had not hesitated to follow her. Unfortunately, the surprising young woman too often overlooked and failed to anticipate complications.

  Two of Most Aged Father’s loyalist anmaglâhk were watching from above as Wynn and the others slipped beyond sight. Dänvârfij had dropped to the street to follow as Rhysís raced across the rooftops deeper into the city, likely to report to Fréthfâre.

  Brot’ân’duivé was uncertain what Wynn Hygeorht would do next—or where she would take Léshil and the others. He did not like indecision, especially his own, and glanced toward Rhysís slipping farther away.

  A choice had to be made between two different targets.

  Brot’ân’duivé flipped his stiletto, bit the blade in his teeth, and swung over the roof’s edge to drop.

  * * *

  Osha nocked another arrow and aimed as Chane and Shade fled up the mainway. He understood their need to draw the guards off, but they were heading for a more populated district. How would the citizens react to a howling wild beast if Shade did not fall silent, and soon?

  There was nothing to be done. The guards must be lured away, but Osha worried that, with Chane to slow her, Shade might not have enough of a lead.

  He turned his eyes on the gate as six men in gold sashes ran out and down the street. He aimed ahead of them and released the bow’s string. Ducking low as the arrow flew, he saw it strike the cobble two strides before the lead guard.

  That one skidded to a stop, forcing the others to do so as well. At their shouts to one another in looking about, Osha dropped below their sight on the roof.

  He no longer heard Shade’s howling, and neither she nor Chane was in sight. The guards below would have to slow in their search without a visible quarry.

  Osha stayed low as he crept around to the chimney’s back, facing the roof’s inland edge. About to drop into the cutway and head for the chosen place to meet the others, he looked back one last time . . . and stalled.

  Across the mainway along the rooftop silhouettes, something moved beneath the moonlight, silently running deeper into the city’s northern reaches. In less than a breath, it leaped as if vaulting a narrow street or alley somewhere below. The noise of the guards down the mainway had faded, but even so, Osha never heard the shadow land on the next rooftop.

  Nor did it slow in doing so.

  He did not know who the shadow was, but he knew what it was by its ways and movement.

  Anmaglâhk.

  Somewhere in this city, it was still possible that Brot’ân’duivé sought his own pursuits. If he yet lived, there would have been no chance to seek him out—not that Osha wished to—while striving to free the others.

  But Brot’ân’duivé would never be seen in the open like that running shadow.

  And Osha remembered something the domin had said.

  There had been two light-haired elves among those who had captured his long-lost friends. At the time Ghassan had mentioned this, Osha and Wynn had wondered . . . but this was a large continent with its own population of elves.

  Osha rose in panic upon the rooftop. Any remnants of doubt vanished.

  After all that had been done to cut off Dänvârfij and her team, they had tracked Magiere and Léshil to this city. One of them was now in sight—likely male to judge by its height—and was not going in the direction Wynn’s group had traveled.

  An anmaglâhk outnumbered would wait and follow or seek others to assist. If this messenger succeeded, more of Dänvârfij’s team would soon descend upon the others . . . upon Wynn.

  Osha dropped from the roof’s edge, landing so hard in the cutway that he had to tuck and roll. Rising with his legs and one shoulder aching, he bolted across the mainway, without even looking for guards, and scrambled up another building to rise and search the night.

  And he saw the shadow even farther away.

  There was no time for stealth as he raced over the top of the city. Everyone else was in danger, including helpless Leanâlhâm . . . including Wynn.

  As he ran, he reached over his shoulder and felt for an arrow without a thread ridge, one with only a steel tip. Gripping that, he hesitated for a half breath. A trained anmaglâhk could hear an arrow coming and evade it, especially in the quiet of the night. He pinched the thread-ridged arrow between his last two fingers and also grabbed a different one—without a ridge—between his first two fingers.

  He now held one arrow with a Chein’âs white metal head and one of plain steel.

  Osha halted, quickly drew back the steel-headed arrow, and fired.

  He aimed slightly low and left to catch his target in the thigh and hobble it. If the arrow hit by chance, that would be enough to halt his target’s flight. As the arrow left the bow, he drew back the white-tipped arrow and fired again—the first to mask the sound of the second in flight.

  In that instant, Leanâlhâm broke through Osha’s thoughts of Wynn.

  He had left her to Léshil, Magiere, and Chap. He had believed they of all people could keep her safe from harm, even in the company of Brot’ân’duivé after the loyalists had been cut off. She had not been safe after all, but imprisoned in a foreign land. The greimasg’äh had escaped that same fate . . . and left Leanâlhâm there.

  One blink after Osha had fired the first arrow, the shadow lurched to the right.

  This did not matter; that was where he had aimed the second arrow.

  A bit of white glinted in the dark as moonlight caught on a thin line of metal . . . like an anmaglâhk blade. Wynn was now somewhere below in the streets and unaware of pursuit.

  Osha instinctively twitched his grip on the bow.

  Beneath the leather wrap in his grip hid another gift of the Chein’âs: a white metal bow handle to match the head of the second arrow. Out in the dark, that arrow shifted in flight as his aim instinctively fixed dead center upon the shadow.

  He never heard it strike.

  The shadow’s silhouette suddenly twitched, convulsed, and toppled. He heard it fall to the roof and slide. Then came the distant sound of cloth tearing. In the silence that followed, Osha remained rigid in place, until he heard the body’s impact upon a street somewhere below.

  Osha stood frozen and could not lower the bow. A flickering image of Wynn overlaid the one of a shadow convulsing in the dark. Both visions burned into his mind, and he grew sick, began shuddering, and fought to keep his feet.

  His first kill—which he had never wanted—was one of his former caste.

  * * *

  ...what are you . . . why have you come . . . who do you serve?

  ...no one left to trust . . . no one will come for you . . .

  ...all are locked away or fled . . . you are alone . . . forever . . .

  That whispering chorus echoed out of memories in Magiere’s head. She was barely aware of being dragged through night streets she didn’t recognize. Even the pain of her torn wrists, feeling as if they were still manacled, wasn’t enough to shut out those whispers.

  “Magiere, please!”

  That voice was louder than the others. It pierced her right
ear, as if she had actually heard it.

  “Help me . . . try to move your feet . . . and walk.”

  It was so familiar, that voice. It taunted her, but she couldn’t place it. Air and strange smells—different from the cell’s stench—rushed across her face and filled her nostrils. Her arms and shoulders ached as if stretched to their limits by whatever chains now held her up.

  ...no one will come for you . . .

  Those words again scratched and skittered like bugs crawling in her skull. At their pain, she opened her eyes.

  Magiere cringed as a passing light burned her irises. She shut her eyes in a hard blink. When she opened them again, strange buildings along a dark street rushed past her, except for another lantern drawing nearer ahead as she was . . . dragged onward.

  “This way,” someone half whispered from up ahead, and that voice was also familiar, like the one in her ear. “The shrine isn’t far. We’ll hide around the back to wait for the others.”

  What was happening?

  Magiere barely turned her head, and Leesil’s face appeared so close to hers. He was looking forward to wherever that other voice had come from. She became vaguely aware that both of her arms were over the top of two people who were dragging her along. She didn’t look the other way for the second of those two; she looked only at Leesil.

  She had dreamed of him amid the whispers for so many . . . how many days or nights? The skin over his face was tight, and he was panting.

  “Leesil?” she breathed.

  His face twisted instantly toward her, and she shook under his sudden stop.

  “Wynn . . . wait!” he called.

  His voice hurt her ears after so long hearing nothing but whispers in her head. His bloodshot amber eyes filled with relief.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and again, “I’m so . . . sorry . . .”

  Confusion tangled with hope. Was he truly here to save her? Had he just called to Wynn? No, Wynn was far away, and none of this was real. Anguish killed hope as Leesil blurred in her sight.