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

by David B. Coe

  Grinsa’s wound seemed to be healing; certainly the swelling had gone down overnight. Tavis would have been happier had the gleaner shown some sign of awakening, but at least his injury didn’t appear to be diseased. He crushed a few fresh leaves and retied the cloth.

  “Tha’s enough, noble,” one of the men said, as Tavis adjusted the bandage. “Leave ’im.”

  They yanked the young lord away from Grinsa and tied his hands at the wrists, then sat him up with his back against a boulder as they bound his ankles together. When they had tied Grinsa, they stretched him out beside Tavis and walked away to speak among themselves. After a few moments, the twins left the shelter, returning a short time later with the few items Tavis had left with the horses.

  “What did you do with our mounts?” he demanded.

  “I think ye mean our mounts,” the leader said with a smirk. “An’ wha’ we did with ’em is none o’ yer concern.”

  Tavis held the man’s gaze for several moments, but looked away at last, knowing that he was powerless to keep the men from doing whatever they wished, not only with the horses, but also with Tavis and the gleaner.

  “Wake up, Grinsa,” he whispered. “For pity’s sake, wake up.”

  Wretched and helpless, Tavis just watched as the brigands counted out the gold he and Grinsa had been carrying, feasted on their food, and toyed with their weapons.

  The morning passed slowly. Tavis struggled to free his hands, but the brigands had tied them all too well. All he succeeded in doing was chafing his wrists until they were raw and bloody. He glanced at Grinsa repeatedly, hoping the gleaner would awaken and wondering if Qirsi shaping power worked against rope.

  “How’d ye do it, noble?”

  Tavis looked up to find the leader watching him, his mouth full of dried meat from the kitchens of Glyndwr Castle.

  “Do what?”

  “Escape Kentigern, o’ course. There’s men tha’ said i’ couldn’ be done. I, myself, know o’ four men tha’ died there. None o’ them fools mind ye, and all o’ them bigger an’ stronger than ye. An’ here ye are, no’ much more ’an a boy, an’ ye got out. So I’m askin’, how’d ye do it?”

  Grinsa did it, he wanted to say. He shattered the walls of Kentigern Castle just as he’ll shatter your skull when the time comes. But he knew that if he gave even the barest hint of the gleaner’s abilities these men would kill the Qirsi before he ever regained consciousness. “I had help,” he replied at last, looking away. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”

  The brigand laughed. “Well, I know tha’. But wha’ kind o’ help?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  Tavis heard the whisper of steel. Looking at the man again, he saw him holding Grinsa’s dagger, testing the blade with his thumb, a small smile on his lips.

  “ ’Cause if ye don’, I’ll kill yer frien’.”

  The young lord turned away again, closing his eyes for just a moment and cursing his weakness. “There was a merchant in the city, a Qirsi. He had shaping magic. The first minister here knew of him and enlisted his help.”

  “A shaper, eh? Now tha’ I believe.”

  Tavis said nothing.

  “Actually, we’re no’ tha’ different, are we?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I never killed a girl before, but I’ve been in my share o’ prisons, an’ I’ve been a fugitive even longer ’an ye.”

  He glared at the man, not caring that his hands were bound, or that the brigand held a blade. “I didn’t kill her!”

  “O’ course ye didn’.” He heard disbelief in the man’s voice. The brigand was mocking him.

  Tavis knew that he shouldn’t care. These men were nothing. Many of the people he needed to convince—Kearney and the other nobles, his parents, Hagan and Xaver—already believed him, and the rest would with time. That was what mattered.

  But he had struggled too long to prove his innocence, and had suffered too much for being accused of Brienne’s murder. He couldn’t bring himself to suffer the man’s ridicule.

  “It’s true,” he said, meeting the brigand’s gaze. “She was killed by an assassin, a man hired by the Qirsi renegades. They thought to start a civil war by pitting my house against Kentigern.”

  “An’ where’s this assassin now?”

  “He’s dead. I killed him on the Wethy Crown less than half a turn ago.”

  The man laughed aloud. “Ye did. All b’ yerself.”

  “Yes.”

  He kept his eyes fixed on those of the brigand, and gradually the man’s laughter faded. “Did th’ Qirsi help ye wi’ tha’, too?”

  “No.” Tavis hesitated. It was one thing to tell the man he had killed Cadel; it was quite another to claim that he had done it without any help. But how did he explain his strange confrontation with Brienne’s killer? How did he justify killing Cadel after the assassin had lowered his blade? “I’m not sure how it happened really. The assassin . . .” He shook his head, deciding in the end that this brigand didn’t deserve any more of an explanation. “I was just lucky.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Yer a strange ’un, lad. No’ like most nobles I’ve known.” He sheathed the blade and turned away. “Give ’em some food an’ water,” he said to the nearest of the twins.

  “ ’E looks well fed t’ me. ’E can go withou’ fer a time.”

  The leader lunged for him, grabbing a handful of the man’s hair and pulling his face close to his own. “I said give ’im some.” He shoved the twin away, making him stumble. The man glared at him for a moment, hatred in his eyes. Then he tossed two pieces of dried meat onto the grass just in front of Tavis.

  “How am I supposed to eat with my hands bound?”

  The twin leered at him. “Ye can eat it like a dog, noble.”

  The others laughed, including the leader. Tavis just turned his face away. No doubt there would come a time later in the day when his hunger got the better of his pride, but for now he left the meat where it was.

  “Sounds like we’re having a rough time of it.”

  Tavis’s eyes flew to Grinsa’s face. “Gods be praised!” he said, his voice a breathless whisper.

  “Shhh.” The gleaner’s eyes were still closed, and he kept his voice so low that Tavis had to lean closer just to hear him. “What’s happened?”

  “What do you remember?”

  “The storm. Riding back to the cluster of boulders.”

  “That’s where we are now.”

  “There was a lightning strike. My mount reared. I recall nothing after that.”

  “You fell, hit your head on a stone. You’ve been unconscious ever since. It seems the cluster of boulders is used as a shelter by these brigands.”

  “Not one of my better ideas, eh? When was that?”

  “Just yesterday. How do you feel?”

  “Ay! Who’s ’e talkin’ to?” the tall brigand called before Grinsa could answer.

  The nearest of the twins strode toward them. “Th’ whitehair’s awake!”

  “You’re Fotir!” Tavis whispered quickly.

  “What?”

  The lord had no time to explain. The twin grabbed Grinsa by the collar and hoisted him into a sitting position. The gleaner let out a groan, making Tavis wonder if he was trying to fool the brigands into thinking that he was worse off than he really was. A moment later, though, Grinsa vomited down the front of his cloak. The twin took a step back.

  The leader approached slowly, his blade drawn, and his eyes fixed on the gleaner.

  “Ye don’ look well, Minister,” the man said. “Th’ lad will tell ye tha’ if ye stay still, an’ don’ do nothin’ foolish, ye won’ get hurt. Otherwise, I’ll kill ye. Understan’?”

  Grinsa gave a small nod, then gingerly leaned his head back against the stone.

  “With any luck, yer lord will pay a ransom fer both o’ ye, and we’ll be done. If no’ . . .” He shrugged.

  “Water?” the gleaner asked weakly.

&n
bsp; The brigand eyed him, frowning slightly. At last he nodded and walked away. “Give ’im some water,” he said over his shoulder. “An’ watch ’im.”

  The same twin who had given Tavis the food carried over one of the water skins. He looked like he might just throw it down as he had the meat, but he appeared to realize that wouldn’t work in this case. He glanced at the leader, opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again. In the end, he squatted down in front of the gleaner, a sour look on his face, and held the skin as Grinsa drank.

  After he had moved off a short distance, Tavis asked again, “How do you feel?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Can you heal yourself?”

  “I don’t dare try.”

  “Why not?”

  “Qirsi magic is controlled with the mind. My head’s been injured. Trying to heal myself would be like a surgeon operating on himself with a dulled blade. Given time, I should recover. But I’d prefer to find a healer, one of my own kind.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?”

  “You’ve kept us alive so far. I trust you’ll think of something.”

  “Grinsa—”

  “I may be able to shatter a blade or two, Tavis, but beyond that I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  The young lord glanced at the brigands, who were largely ignoring them. “You shouldn’t apologize. I’ve just . . . I’ve been waiting for you to wake up . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind. When the time comes, shatter their limbs, not their blades. They’re carrying our weapons.”

  Grinsa smiled weakly, his eyes closed again.

  “Can you do anything to the ropes?”

  “No. Shaping magic works best on something harder—stone, steel, rock. I can burn the ropes, but they’ll notice that.”

  Tavis simply nodded, and the two of them fell into a lengthy silence. After a time, the gleaner’s breathing slowed, and Tavis guessed that he had fallen asleep. With nothing better to do, he closed his eyes as well.

  He awoke with a start when someone kicked his foot. His arms and back were aching and his stomach felt sour and hollow.

  “Wake up, noble.” The leader’s voice.

  “I’m awake,” he said blinking his eyes against the light. The sun was just overhead, warming the boulders and grasses within the shelter.

  The brigand nodded toward Grinsa. “Is ’e well ’nough t’ move?”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “I’m askin’ th’ questions, noble. Can ’e move?”

  Tavis faltered, addled with sleep, and unsure of whether he and Grinsa would have a better chance of escaping if they remained where they were.

  “I can move,” Grinsa said, his voice sounding stronger than it had earlier.

  Tavis glanced at him, their eyes meeting. “Are you certain?”

  A smile flitted across his face. “No. But I’ll try.”

  Clearly the gleaner thought they’d have a better chance in open country. Tavis was in no position to argue.

  “I should check his bandage before we go anywhere,” the young lord said. Perhaps if they untied him now . . .

  “No.” The brigand was eyeing them both with obvious distrust. “ ’Is bandage is fine. We’ll b’ goin’ soon.” He glanced at the strips of dried meat still lying on the ground in front of Tavis. “Ye better eat now. There’ll be nothin’ else ’til nightfall.” With that he walked away.

  “Where do you think we’re going?” Tavis asked in a whisper, as the leader began to speak with the others in his band.

  “They’re brigands. They probably have hiding places like this one all over the highlands, and I doubt they remain at any one of them for more than a night or two.”

  “But they just arrived here this morning.”

  “Yes, and they found us. They probably expect the Glyndwr army to turn up any time now.”

  Tavis shrugged, conceding the point. “You’re better?”

  “A bit, yes. Though I still don’t know how much magic I can chance.”

  “Quiet! Both o’ ye!”

  “Shaping will be still be hard,” Grinsa said, his voice dropping even further. “But maybe—”

  “I told ye t’ be quiet!” the leader said, drawing Tavis’s sword and striding toward them. “I wan’ ye both alive, but tha’ don’ mean I can’ add t’ yer scars, noble, or take out th’ minister’s eyes. Now shut yer mouths!” He turned to look at the others. “I wan’ ’em kept apart, an’ I don’ wan’ ’em untied. We’ll put ’em across th’ horses’ backs.”

  Tavis hadn’t taken his eyes off the gleaner. At the mention of the mounts, Grinsa’s eyebrows went up and he gave a slight nod. The brigands didn’t appear to notice.

  A few turns ago, the young lord wouldn’t have understood, having known so little about Qirsi magic. Now, though,

  Grinsa’s meaning was as clear to him as the brilliant azure sky above the highlands. Language of beasts.

  Within moments, Tavis had been lifted roughly, slung over the shoulder of the tall brigand, and carried out of the circle of stones. The twins followed, bearing Grinsa together. The tall man untied the young lord’s hands, then retied them so that they were in front of Tavis rather than behind him. Then he lifted the boy to lay him over the back of one of the mounts—Tavis’s own, as it turned out—loosely securing the young lord’s hands to one stirrup and his feet to the other.

  It wasn’t as uncomfortable as Tavis had thought it would be. Or so he thought. As soon as they started moving, he realized that he wouldn’t be able to bear much of this at all. Every step of the mount bounced him, making his head spin and his stomach heave. He closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. He could only imagine how Grinsa was suffering.

  The brigands had horses of their own, and they set what seemed to Tavis a punishing pace.

  “Gleaner!” he called.

  “I know,” came Grinsa’s reply.

  “Keep quiet!” the brigand growled.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes! Just get on with it!”

  “Damn ye both! I said—”

  Before the leader could finish, one of the horses neighed loudly and someone shouted a curse. An instant later, Tavis’s horse bolted, jostling him mercilessly. He gritted his teeth, his eyes shut once more. He could hear another mount running beside him and he hoped with all his heart that it was Grinsa’s. They seemed to gallop over the grasses for an eternity, until at last his horse slowed, then halted altogether.

  “Gods,” Tavis managed to say. “That was—”

  “No time, Tavis. They’re coming. Hold out your hands and pull them as far apart as the ropes will allow.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  Tavis did as he was told. An instant later, the small expanse of rope between his wrists burst into flames, singeing his skin. “Demons and fire!” He jerked his hands apart and the rope snapped. Immediately he began beating on first one wrist, then the other, trying to put out the flames. “You could have warned me!”

  “Never mind that! I’ll do the same for your feet. When they’re free, ride northward, as fast as you can!”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Tavis nodded. He could hear other mounts approaching quickly. Soon his feet were free. He jumped down to the ground and made certain that the burning scraps of rope were off of his boots and his mount. Then he swung himself back into his saddle and kicked at the flanks of his horse. “Ride, Fean!” he called to the mount. “Ride hard!”

  He glanced back. True to his word, the gleaner was with him. He could see the brigands behind Grinsa. They were bearing down on them, their weapons drawn. The twins led the way, followed by the tall man and his stout friend. The leader trailed the others by some distance. It seemed that his was the mount to which Grinsa had whispered.

  An instant later, the two lead riders abruptly halted, one of them screaming and flailing at his head. It took Tavis a moment to realize that
his hair was ablaze.

  “That should stop them,” Grinsa said. He smiled, but he looked deathly pale, as if the use of so much magic had drained him.

  Tavis nodded, gazing back at the men. “They have our weapons, our food, our gold!”

  “I know. But we can replace all those things in Glyndwr. We can’t fight them, Tavis.”

  He was right, of course. He and the gleaner were alive: they had their mounts. He should have been pleased. But he couldn’t help feeling that they had failed, or rather, that he had failed them both. They were about to ride to war. They intended to do battle with a Weaver and his army of sorcerers. And somehow they had allowed five brigands to take nearly all their most valued possessions.

  “It’s all right,” the gleaner said, seeming to read his thoughts, as he did so often. “Sometimes a warrior proves himself best by knowing when to retreat.”

  A warrior. He nearly laughed aloud. Whatever he was, he certainly didn’t feel like a warrior.

  Chapter

  Five

  Curtell, Braedon

  t gnawed at his mind like wood ants attacking old timber.

  He could see the emperor’s plans taking shape, and so the Weaver’s as well. The master of arms trained his men with growing urgency; the quartermaster gathered provisions for Braedon’s army like some forest beast hoarding food for the snows; and Emperor Harel himself wandered about the palace daily, overseeing the preparations. At other times Kayiv jal Yivanne might go an entire turn without seeing the emperor at all, despite being a minister in Harel’s court. Now he saw the man constantly.

  And each time the emperor came near, the minister had to resist an urge to warn him of Dusaan jal Kania’s betrayal, to tell him that the leader of this movement that had struck fear into the hearts of every Eandi noble in the Forelands resided here, in his own palace.

  He didn’t dare, of course. If the high chancellor really was a Weaver—and the minister had come to believe beyond any doubt that he was—he would find a way to kill Kayiv, even if he was branded as a traitor. More to the point, the minister wasn’t certain that he wanted Dusaan unmasked, at least not yet. Kayiv had long dreamed of a day when a Qirsi in the Forelands could aspire to being more than merely a minister or a festival entertainer. He disliked the high chancellor; he had since first coming to the emperor’s palace three years before, and when Nitara ja Plin ended their affair and made it clear that she now desired Dusaan, that dislike had deepened to hatred. But there could be no denying that the man was both cunning and powerful. If anyone could lead the Qirsi to victory, he could.