Shapers of Darkness: Book Four of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by David B. Coe

  Stepping out from the shelter of the stones, he was assaulted once more by the chilling wind and rain. If anything, the storm had grown fiercer, the gale more biting. Fortunately, the horses were not far off. They stood together amid the grasses and stones, looking miserable, their heads held low.

  As Tavis drew near them, Fean, his mount, let out a low nicker and stomped a hoof restlessly.

  “It’s all right, boy,” the young lord said, keeping his voice as low as he could in the storm, and slowing his approach. “It’s all right.” Reaching the animals, he took Fean’s reins in hand and began to lead him back toward the boulders, hoping Grinsa’s horse would follow. He did.

  Another flicker of lightning made both animals start, but the thunder didn’t follow immediately, nor did it make the ground shudder so. Tavis wanted to believe that the storm was passing, though the rain and wind hadn’t slackened. When they came to the circle of boulders, both horses balked at squeezing through the narrow passages into the sheltered area. Tavis tried for several moments to coax them through, but decided in the end that all of them would probably be better off with the animals just outside.

  He carried the food and sleeping rolls into the ring of boulders, then checked on Grinsa again. From what he could tell, the gleaner hadn’t moved. On the other hand, his injury didn’t look any worse. Using the sleeping rolls as blankets, Tavis covered his friend. He found the comfrey, crushed a few leaves between his fingers, and placed them on the Qirsi’s wound, tying them in place with a strip of cloth that he tore from the bottom of his riding cape.

  “You owe me a new cloak, gleaner.”

  He stared at the man for a moment, searching for any sign at all that Grinsa could hear him. Seeing none, he turned his attention to the small pile of wood and the fire ring. Tavis hadn’t realized until now just how much he had come to depend upon Grinsa’s magic. As a noble, he had never needed to bandage a wound, his own or anyone else’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he had built a fire by himself. He carried a flint in his travel sack, but with the wood soaked and the rain still falling he had little hope that it would do him any good.

  Nevertheless, he retrieved it and started trying to build a fire. The air continued to grow colder, and the young lord had no doubt that by nightfall they would have need of warmth. He piled the wood in the fire ring and even found a small tuft of dried grass in a crevice in one of the boulders. But though he managed to light the grass aflame, the wood would not burn. And once that small bit of dry grass was gone, he had little else to use as kindling. At last he gave up, returning to Grinsa’s side and huddling against a stone to escape the rain.

  The Qirsi looked even paler than he did usually, and his skin felt cold against the back of Tavis’s hand.

  “What should I do for you, Grinsa? I don’t know how to heal your wound, and I don’t dare try to get you back to Glyndwr in this weather.”

  As if to confirm this, lightning flared overhead, and was answered almost instantly by a tremendous clap of thunder. This, it turned out, was the last lightning to strike near the cluster of boulders. The sky flickered constantly for much of the rest of the day, but soon the rumbles of thunder grew muffled and distant. After a time, Tavis stood and ventured out of the small sheltered area. The horses were just where he had left them. The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle, but the wind continued to howl, and the young lord could see a dense fog spreading over the highlands from the west, bearing down on them like a great ocean wave. The wind was frigid now, as if it were carrying the snows back to Glyndwr. And they were without a warming blaze.

  Tavis returned to the shelter of the boulders, and as he did, the gleaner stirred.

  “Gods be praised!” he whispered, rushing to the Qirsi’s side. “Grinsa? Can you hear me?”

  The gleaner’s head lolled to the side and he let out a low moan.

  “Grinsa. You have to wake up. We need a fire, and you need to heal yourself. I can’t do it for you.”

  The gleaner whispered something Tavis couldn’t hear.

  “What? Say that again.” He leaned close, putting his ear to the man’s mouth.

  “Cresenne,” the gleaner said, the name coming out as a sigh.

  “No, Cresenne’s not here.”

  He stared intently at the gleaner, waiting for him to say more, or move, or do something.

  “Grinsa?” he said after a time, gripping the gleaner’s shoulder and shaking him gently.

  Nothing.

  “Damn!”

  He slumped against the nearest boulder, shivering with the cold and wrapping himself more tightly in his damp riding cloak. After a few moments, for want of something better to do, he returned to the wood and his flint. Searching through the pile of logs once more, Tavis found a few scraps of bark and thin branches that seemed relatively dry. He cleared the wood out of the fire ring and piled the bark and twigs. Then he set to work with his dagger and flint once more, desperate now to start any sort of fire.

  Before long his hands were cramping. Still, he kept at it. Occasionally he would draw a small wisp of smoke from the scraps of wood, but as soon as he began to blow on the wood, the smoke would vanish and he would be forced to begin again. He should have given up. Several times he threw the flint to the ground, cursing loudly. But always he retrieved it, starting anew. It wasn’t merely his fear for Grinsa that drove him, or the bone-numbing cold, or even his certainty that they would die before the next dawn if they didn’t find a way to warm themselves and dry their clothes and bedrolls. In the end, when fright and desperation failed him, it was pride that made him fight his failure. Curgh pride. For centuries, the nobles of his house had been known for it, ridiculed for it. But pride had kept him alive in Kentigern’s dungeon, allowing him to endure Aindreas’s torches and blades. And pride saved him now.

  Somewhere, perhaps in that dungeon, or else in the corridor of an Aneiran inn, wrestling with the assassin Cadel, or perhaps on the Wethy shore, where the singer nearly killed him, Tavis had lost his fear of death. Even knowing that his life would not lead him to the Eibitharian throne, or any other future he had envisioned as a child, he still looked forward to meeting whatever fate the gods had chosen for him. And if they had marked him for an early death—if they had ordained that he should suffer a fatal wound on the battlefield, or succumb to the killing magic of the conspiracy’s Weaver—so be it. But he refused to die here in the highlands, a victim of his own inability to light a fire. He had endured too much in the last year to suffer such an ignominious fate.

  He struck at the flint again and again, caring not a whit if he notched the blade of his dagger, ignoring the aching of his hands. The sky grew darker, though from the fog, or new storm clouds, or the approach of night, he didn’t know. Eventually it began to snow, scattered small flakes that landed softly on the grasses and stones and quickly melted. And as these flakes fell, a spark finally flew from his flint and ignited the bark at the center of the fire ring. The flame danced for a moment in the gloom, then died. But Tavis dropped low and began to blow on the small glowing corner of the wood, steadily, gently, adding a second piece of bark as he did.

  The bark crackled, and smoke began to rise from the small pile. He added twigs, tiny ones at first, then, gradually, larger pieces, until he had a blaze going. Once the first flames appeared it really didn’t take very long at all.

  He straightened, still on his knees, and actually laughed. The boulders around him glowed orange, and his shadow lurked on the stone behind him like some great beast. Already he could feel the fire’s warmth on his face and hands, as welcome as a Qirsi’s healing touch.

  He stood slowly, his knees stiff, and walked to Grinsa.

  “There’s a fire,” he said, lifting the gleaner and walking him over to the blaze. He laid him down gently once more, and placed the sleeping rolls as close to the fire as he dared, hoping that they would begin to dry. Then he untied the cloth he had wrapped around Grinsa’s head and examined his injury. It looked much as it
had the last time he checked. Tavis crushed a few more comfrey leaves and covered the wound again.

  As he did, the gleaner made a small whimpering noise, and his eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

  “Grinsa? Can you hear me now?”

  He mumbled something in response, and Tavis bent closer.

  “ . . . She’s not a traitor. She’s doing this for you, for your kingdom.”

  “Grinsa, it’s me, Tavis. We’re in the highlands. You’ve been hurt. You need to wake up and eat something. You need to heal yourself.”

  “The Weaver will kill her. He’ll kill all of them.”

  “Wake up, Grinsa,” he said again, though he knew it would do no good. “Please.”

  The gleaner said something else that Tavis couldn’t understand.

  The young lord sat back, shaking his head. “Maybe the fire will help.”

  He retrieved the sacks of food they carried and pulled out some dried meat and fruits. After eating and drinking some water, he stepped out of the circle of boulders to make certain the horses were all right. It was definitely growing dark now. The fog had cleared somewhat, though a light snow still fell. Far to the west, near the horizon, Tavis thought he could see an end to the cloud cover and a thin bright line of sky. If they made it through the night, they might be able to return to Glyndwr Castle come morning.

  On that thought, he returned to Grinsa and his fire. The blaze burned brightly now, and while he knew that he was being foolish, he couldn’t help but be pleased with himself. He turned the sleeping rolls so that they would dry evenly, placed more wood in the flames, then lay down beside the fire ring, bundling himself in his riding cloak.

  He awakened sometime later to a black sky and the soft glow of dying embers. He climbed to his feet and threw more wood on the coals, smiling when they quickly caught fire. Then he went to Grinsa once more and laid the back of his hand on the gleaner’s cheek. His skin still felt cool. After a moment, he stirred, but his eyes remained closed and he said nothing.

  The sleeping rolls were nearly dry by now, and Tavis draped one of them over the gleaner and took the other for himself, lying down once more.

  When next Tavis woke, it was to the sound of distant voices and the nickering of his mount. The sky above their small shelter had begun to brighten and for a moment the young lord thought that perhaps someone had come to help them. An instant later, though, as he shook himself awake, it all came back to him in a rush. By the time the first of the brigands stepped through the narrow passages into the circle of boulders, Tavis was on his feet, standing over Grinsa, his sword drawn.

  Two of the men came through the same entrance Tavis had been using, daggers in hand. They were both of medium build, with dark hair and eyes, and sharp, narrow faces. They must have been brothers; they might even have been twins. Two more men entered through another passageway opposite this first one, both of them armed as well. Tavis was forced to take a step back toward the nearest boulder and open his stance, his eyes darting from one pair to the other.

  These other men were as dissimilar as the first two had been alike. One was tall and lean, with a long face and cold, pale eyes. For just a moment, he reminded Tavis of Cadel. His companion was far shorter and powerfully built, his chest and shoulders broad and round. He was bald and he wore a rough, yellow beard.

  “Thar’s two of ’em,” this last man called loudly. “Though from th’ looks o’ things, only one is worth worryin’ ’bout.”

  A moment later a fifth man entered the circle, using the same entrance used by the twins. And seeing this man, Tavis knew immediately that he was the leader of their gang. He was no larger than any of the others, but he had the body and swagger of a swordsman. He had a handsome face and long, wheat-colored hair that he wore loose to his shoulders. His beard was full, but trim, as if, in spite of the life he led, he took some care in maintaining his appearance.

  He stepped to the center of the space, eyeing Tavis with interest, a thin smile on his lips. He held a short sword loosely at his side and a longer blade in a baldric on his back.

  “Yer trespassin’, noble.”

  If they could get out of this with their lives and their mounts, Tavis would count it a victory, a miraculous one at that. He wasn’t about to anger the man.

  “We are,” he said. “And I apologize for that. We were caught in the storm and my friend was hurt. We had no choice but to take shelter here.”

  The man’s gaze fell to the fire ring, then slid toward the depleted pile of wood, before returning to Tavis. “Ye stole our wood. It’s no’ easy t’ find out here on th’ highlands.”

  “We can pay you for the wood.”

  A smile broke over his face. “I’ve no doubt ye can.” He glanced down at Grinsa, then prodded him with his foot. “He looks dead to me, noble.”

  “He’s not.”

  The brigand’s eyes danced. Clearly, he hadn’t really thought Grinsa was dead. “Wha’ I can’ figure out is why an Eandi noble would be journeyin’ with a white-hair in th’ firs’ place.”

  “Maybe th’ Qirsi’s ’is minister,” one of the twins said, and started to laugh.

  The others joined in, but the leader raised a hand, silencing them.

  “Maybe ’e is. But I don’ think th’ lad’s a duke quite yet. Are ye, lad?”

  Tavis felt himself starting to tremble. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No? Where’d ye get those scars?”

  “A brigand gave them to me. Then I killed him.”

  The man laughed. “Ye have some pluck, lad. But I suppose I should ’spect as much from a Curgh.”

  The young lord felt cold spreading outward from his chest, as if his blood had turned as icy as Amon’s Ocean. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not knowing what to say.

  The brigand laughed again. “Look, boys. I’ve silenced a noble. An’ no’ jus’ any noble either.” He glanced at the others. “Our frien’ here may be th’ mos’ famous lord in all th’ Forelands.”

  “Wha’ ye talkin’ ’bout, Kr—”

  The leader’s sword snapped up, so that it was level with the eyes of the stout man, who instantly fell silent.

  “No names, ye fool. We haven’ ’cided yet if our frien’ here is goin’ to live out th’ day.”

  The bald man just nodded.

  “ ’Nough o’ yer games,” the tall one said. “Who is ’e?”

  “This, boys, is Lord Tavis o’ Curgh.”

  “I thought ’e was dead.”

  “No, ye fool.” The leader regarded Tavis again, shaking his head. “No. ’E’s alive, all right. Aren’ ye, lad?”

  “You’re mistaken,” Tavis said, his voice unsteady.

  “Got those scars from Aindreas, himself, didn’ ye? Word was ye refused t’ go t’ Glyndwr. Wen’t’ Aneira instead. Bu’ here ye’ are, walkin’ th’ highlands with yer Qirsi frien’.”

  The tall man stepped closer to the leader. “If ’e’s really th’ Curgh boy,” he said in a low voice, “we shoul’ kill ’im now an’ take ’is gold. Kill th’ Qirsi, too, ’fore ’e wakes up.”

  “I don’ think so. ’Is gold’s already ours, isn’t it, lad? An’ I wager ’is father th’ duke will pay a good deal more t’ get ’im back alive.” He looked at Grinsa again. “Qirsi’s another matter. Ye can kill ’im.”

  A dark grin spread across the tall man’s face.

  Tavis edged closer to the gleaner, his sword still raised. “No,” he said. “You can’t kill him.”

  The leader looked amused. “An’ why is tha’?”

  Because he’s a Weaver. Because without him all the Forelands will fall to the Qirsi renegades. “You’re right about me. I am Tavis of Curgh, son of Javan, heir to the dukedom. And this is Fotir jal Salene, my father’s first minister. The duke sent him to Glyndwr to bring me north, so that I can fight beside the men of my house in the war against the empire.”

  One of the twins shook his head. “’E’s lyin’. Thar ain’ n
o war.”

  “Not yet, perhaps. But the Braedon fleet is poised off Galdasten’s shores, waiting for the emperor’s orders. They’ll attack soon, and when they do the entire realm will march to war.”

  “I tell ye, ’e’s lyin’.”

  The leader was watching Tavis, his eyes narrowed. Now he gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’ think ’e is.” He looked at the twins. “ ’Member th’ las’ time we was near th’ castle, th’ way th’ gate soldiers was turnin’ peddlers away? Lad’s right. War’s comin’.”

  “Well, even so,” the tall one said, “wha’s tha’ got t’ do wi’ th’ white-hair?”

  “A duke riding to war wants his ministers with him, particularly his first minister.” Tavis met the leader’s gaze, sensing that he had the man’s interest. “My father will pay handsomely for his life as well as for mine.”

  “Keepin’ th’ white-hair alive is dangerous,” the tall one said. “Le’ me kill ’im now.”

  “Mos’ times I would,” the leader said, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Bu’ look at ’im. ’E might no’ be dead, but ’e’s close.”

  “Even half dead, ’e’s still a sorcerer. We should—”

  “No,” the leader said, glaring at the man. “We keep them both alive.” He faced Tavis again. “Provided ye drop yer blade.”

  The young lord eyed the man briefly, then glanced at the others. He might be able to kill one or two of the men, but he would never fight his way past all of them. Better to surrender now and win some time for Grinsa to recover. Exhaling, he tossed his sword to the ground.

  The stout man quickly stooped to retrieve it.

  The leader nodded. “Thar’s a good lad. Bind their han’s an’ feet,” he said to the twins. “An’ make sure ye take their daggers.”

  “Wait!” Tavis said. “Can I check his injury first? I’ve got comfrey leaf on it, but I haven’t looked at it since last night.”

  The leader’s face hardened, and the young lord thought he would refuse. After a moment, however, he gave a curt nod. “Watch ’im,” he commanded.

  One of the twins took the dagger from his belt, and from the gleaner’s as well, while the other examined the pouch of comfrey before handing it to Tavis.