He had found a spot in the road at the top of a rise he felt would make a good stand, and he pulled his horse to a halt. The beast was grateful for the rest, but it wasn’t unaware of the baying hounds that pursued, and it was reluctant to turn and face the threat.
Rondal’s mind raced through a variety of esoteric attacks, discarding one after the other until he came to one that seemed appropriate. Rondal began calling power and weaving the foundations of the spell the moment he decided, creating a swirling vortex of concentrated magical energy between his hands as his comrades thundered toward him.
The goblins were almost fifty paces behind their prey at this point, thanks to Tyndal’s spell. If Rondal could peel off another fifty with this attack, perhaps they could slip down some side track and elude them. The ball of power grew, and when it reached a reasonable size Rondal began shifting the mode of energy expressed within into something very specific. Ordinarily this was a runic sigil, but the principal was easy enough to transfer to an area effect spell.
As Alwer, bringing up the rear, galloped by him Rondal stood in the stirrups and waited until the baying hounds and their wicked riders were only a few dozen feet away before he cast the spell. Suddenly, all five hounds skidded to a stop. Others were coming up behind, but the five closest were suddenly staring intently at Rondal and the sphere of power in his hand.
That was how the spell began. The ball was designed to attract and keep someone’s attention. Sometimes used as a defensive sigil to slow down infiltrators, in this iteration the spell instead compelled the animals who saw it to watch the thing as if were the most fascinating thing in the world.
Rondal had often seen a dog drop everything to stare at an object in a man’s hand. He was about to play the world’s most dangerous game of fetch. To ensure he the spell was fully effective, he shifted the ball to his left hand, and then to his right. Five beady pairs of eyes followed it with intent interest.
“Where’s the ball?” Rondal asked, gamely, while the goblin riders screamed and tugged on the fur of their mounts ineffectively. “Where’s the ball, fellas?” He threw it back and forth, and the five hounds all began wagging their tails like puppies. He shifted it from his right hand back to his left, and when it returned he hurled the sphere far to the left, down a gentle embankment and over a small drainage ditch.
The five hounds took off after the phantom ball like it was an errant squirrel. It continued to captivate their attention in preference to all else, compelling them to chase after the phantom and completely ignore the commands of their riders. Even as he grinned at their outraged howls the next batch of pursuers was closing. Rondal turn and spurred his horse on.
Five of them will be chasing their tails for a while, he sent to Tyndal. How is our progress?
The next crossroad is ahead, he answered. The left fork leads back to Farune Hall. I’m going to put a confounding spell to foil their tracking, and we can slink back to safety – Ron! screamed Tyndal in his mind a moment later, just when he considered slowing his horse again. Shit! We’re under attack! A damned patrol! Seven or eight of them!
Rondal screamed and spurred his horse faster and faster. Every foot of distance was vital, and seemed to take forever to cross. A patrol appearing like that was unlucky, at best. At worst it demonstrated the gurvani’s improving ability to coordinate. An infantry patrol appearing to shore up a cavalry chase suggested the latter. He could hear the yelps and barks of their comrades to both left and right of the road. If they didn’t deal with the infantry patrol, they would be caught between them. Every second that passed could mean their deaths.
When he arrived at the crossroads a moment later, Tyndal was slashing from horseback, Belsi was desperately trying to reload her crossbow, and Alwar was on foot, his horse down and screaming in pain. The animal had been dropped by one of those vicious bolos the goblins had been employing against human cavalry. This one was made of iron chain, nastily barbed, and had taken the beast’s hind legs down hard.
Alwer had his long dagger in one hand and an axe in the other, and was giving good account of himself. Two bodies already lay at his feet, and he was dueling two more warriors. Ringing the crossroads were five or six other gurvani tossing spears and shooting arrows while a like number tried to attack the humans hand-to-hand.
Rondal took the head of one of Alwer’s attackers with his sword as he passed, and then for good measure he plowed into the knot that Tyndal was fighting with his horse, his blade slashing with precision. As they were bowled over both mounts began kicking and stomping on the aggressive little creatures. Horses, unlike dogs, were not particularly fond of gurvani.
Rondal heard a bowstring snap and saw Alwer’s other attacker drop to Belsi’s quarrel, and he shot her a grateful glance. Unfortunately, when he turned to face the next foe another bowstring snapped. When he turned back a moment later, a black-fletched arrow was protruding from one eye socket and a blank expression appeared in the other. Wordlessly the big peasant collapsed to the ground, dead on the spot. Somewhere to his left a goblin cheered at his good aim.
That angered Tyndal. Before Rondal could react the younger apprentice howled in anger and began waving his hands. A moment later a wild devastating blast of flame erupted among the scattered goblin archers, and most fell down screaming, their black fur afire.
“Damn them!” Tyndal screamed. “Alwer!”
“He’s dead!” Rondal called back, sadly, as he examined the body from horseback. The shaft was just too deep. That point had to be far behind the man’s eyeball and deep into his brain. Even if he was alive, he was in shock, and likely would not be for long. Nor would Rondal wish the kind of life he’d have left on an enemy. When the sight and smell of his bowels and bladder relaxing came, Rondal knew it was too late for the brave man. Alwer was dead.
Tyndal was angrily slaying the last of the goblins, impaling one through the chest with a captured javelin, when Rondal looked back up at the sound of their cavalry’s horns. “They’re still behind us! What happened?”
“Their infantry got an ambush set up behind us,” Tyndal said, angrily. “I didn’t see it. Not until it was too late. They had those damn bolos! Alwer’s horse was the only one they got, but . . .”
“Understood. Are you hurt, Arsella?” he asked, automatically, forgetting the girl’s actual name in the moment.
“N-no!” she answered, tearfully, staring down at Alwer’s still-quivering body.
“Then let’s head for Farune Hall and hope they don’t figure it out.”
“Hold,” Tyndal said, wrinkling his nose. He carefully raised the point of his captured blade and quickly ended the wounded horse’s suffering. “Now we can go,” he said, heavily, taking one last look at Alwer’s body.
Belsi nodded, ashen-faced, and started to turn her horse when she stopped. “Wait! They’re just . . . just dogs, right?”
Rondal shrugged. “Yes, but I wouldn’t want to take one of those puppie home to the kids.”
“I have an idea,” she said, digging around in her saddlebag. It was the same one she’d packed from Farune just a few days before. “Demon pepper powder,” she explained, carefully unwrapping the small bag. “It’s as expensive as jewels, but every regal manor kitchen in Gilmora has some. That’s why I took it,” she confessed. “It’s very, very powerful. Get some in your eye, and you’re blind.” She scattered the dust all around her feet. “Any dog who sticks his nose in that won’t be smelling anything else for a while.”
The pungent, spicy aroma was potent enough so that Rondal’s eyes were already watering. “That was clever,” he acknowledged with a bow of his head, nostrils flaring as he tried to avoid a sneeze. “Now let’s get the hells out of here!”
The last leg to Farune Hall was frantic, as the three humans tried to outdistance their pursuers. While they continued to hear baying hounds and tinny horns in the distance, scrying and scouting kept them from encountering any more searchers. They slipped through Farune Hall’s warded doors just as
dusk fell, stabling the horses as quietly as they could in the deserted manor. They deprived themselves of light until they were secured inside of the refuge tower, behind three sets of locked doors and fresh wards
“We’ll stay here tonight,” Rondal ordered, when the last bolt was thrown. “We can scry the route to Maramor tomorrow.”
Tyndal nodded and went upstairs. Belsi, her eyes streaming with tears, went to the little garderobe on the first floor, where she began sobbing. Rondal stripped off his sweat-soaked, blood-splattered armor and left it in a heap by the thick wooden door in case of need, then ascended the staircase as much to get away from the sound of the miserable girl’s crying as to seek a basin in which to wash away the filth of a filthy day.
Tyndal was on the second floor, helping himself to a pint of grog from the tower’s stores before tending to his wounds or the dirt on his face. Rondal was about to pass by and leave his fellow to his own thoughts when Tyndal looked up . . . and set a second glass down beside the first.
Rondal was reluctant, at first. The adrenaline that coursed through his blood had left him exhausted, now that they were safe, and while the refuge at Farune was well-warded and secure, he still didn’t feel as if he could relax.
But then he saw the glint in Tyndal’s eyes, and he realized that his fellow knight needed company, not solitude, to fight away the memory of the day. He couldn’t turn away from a comrade in need like that, not even Tyndal. Only one drink, he promised himself . . . but he could not deny that he looked forward to the liquor washing away the taste of blood, dust and bile from his mouth.
Wordlessly, Tyndal poured the clear liquid into the two small earthenware cups. Without libation or salute, both lads drained them. Only when the drink burned a trail of warmth down his gullet did he feel able to break the silence.
“Good work, today,” he said, sincerely, if hoarsely. “The siege worm, especially, but . . . all of it. The attack. The retreat. The spellcraft. The swordplay . . . you proved yourself a worthy mage knight today,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Sire Cei and Master Min could not have done better.”
Tyndal looked surprised but troubled by the praise. “Me? You carried off that evacuation like you were Luin leading the sacred herds!” He paused a moment and winced at the memory. “Too bad about Alwer, though,” he said, quietly.
“We were so close,” agreed Rondal sadly. Tyndal filled their glasses again and Rondal found it at his lips before he remembered his resolution to stick with one. “To Alwer,” he said, a moment before he drained his glass. “May he find his way to his ancestors in peace.”
Tyndal nodded in agreement and they drank. Two drinks on an empty stomach, no matter how gratifying, made Rondal’s head spin a bit, particularly after the exertions of the day. “I’m going to go upstairs and clean up. You want to start supper? I don’t think . . . I don’t think Belsi is going to be up for it.”
“I saw a smoked pork shoulder in the larder when I was rooting around for this,” Tyndal nodded. “I’ll hack some off. I don’t think we should chance a fire, though,” he added. “Wood smoke would be too difficult to disguise.”
“Cook it by magic, then,” Rondal agreed, dully. “I don’t care if we have to gnaw it off the bone. I . . . I need to wash my face,” he said, lamely, and headed upstairs.
A glance outside an arrow slit on the landing showed him that it had begun to rain. That was good – the rain would obscure their track further by washing away their scent. It would also discourage too many goblin patrols. The furry buggers didn’t particularly like the rain. Besides, he reasoned, they would have their hands full with the new bands of escaped slaves and the rampant siege worm roaming the countryside. Surely they would abandon their search, he reasoned.
On the third floor, he found an ewer, basin and a slip of soap, so he indulged in sponging himself clean. But if there were tears in the water he discarded through the arrow-slit, not even Rondal could tell. He was drained, exhausted and spent. As much as they’d gained in the day for the mission as a whole, losing Alwer had made the whole thing seem like a defeat.
He came down the stairs, cleansed and resolute, if no less tired. Tyndal was smoking a pipe and absently stirred an iron kettle of pork and potatoes that he’d heated near to boiling by magic. Belsi was sitting quietly under the magelight, stiffly stripping down her crossbow the way Rondal had shown her. She barely glanced up at him when he came in. Tyndal spooned out the stew into wooden bowls and added a strip of hardtack to each.
The meal passed in near silence. The question of Belsi’s disposition loomed over all three of them. Rondal found both of his companions stealing guilty glances toward him, then looking away before he could catch their eye. It made him uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than he already was. But if there was anything to be said that hadn’t been already, he couldn’t think of it.
“I’m going to turn in,” he announced, finally. “I think we all need some sleep. I think we can dispense with a watch. We’ve warded the place. We’ll awaken if anything tries to get inside the walls,” he reasoned to himself as much as anyone. He dragged himself upstairs without waiting for a response, and then made up a bed for himself in one corner of the tower out of his cloak and a few dusty blankets.
But once he laid his head down, despite how much his body ached with exhaustion, sleep refused to come.
It was Belsi’s fate that weighed on him, he realized. Losing Alwer so suddenly and violently had been a shock, but that was not what was tormenting him. Knowing he would have to . . . do something about the girl on the morrow was the demon that chased sleep away. He stared into the darkness above his head and toyed with the idea of calling Master Minalan mind-to-mind, or even Lady Pentandra – this sort of thing was well within her domain.
But he knew doing that would be pushing the burden onto someone else’s shoulders. No matter how dreadful it was to bear himself, the idea of forcing someone else to bear it for him was abhorrent. He could not ask Minalan or Pentandra – or even Tyndal – for advice on this. He was the commander, and this was an issue – she was an issue – within his command. It was his responsibility, and he alone had to live with the consequences. He and Belsi.
He felt the beginnings of mind-to-mind contact and desperately hoped it was Pentandra or Minalan, but it was just Tyndal.
What?
I’ve been thinking about Belsi.
I’ll contain my shock.
What if she just . . . slipped away? If somehow she—
No, Tyndal, Rondal said with a mental sigh. You aren’t holding this goat, remember? There was a long pause.
Just thought I’d call it to your attention, Tyndal finished glumly as he climbed the stairs and made himself a bed in the opposite corner. He rolled up a spare blanket for a pillow and pulled his cloak over him. The cool Gilmoran autumn wasn’t nearly as bad as Sevendor’s – and in Boval they’d have snow by now – but it still required a bit of wool against the night.
Rondal did his best to ignore Tyndal and go to sleep. Instead, tortured thoughts of all he had seen and all he had felt churned in his mind . . . until they were all banished by a creak on the stairs.
Belsi. He’d thought that she would take advantage of the more-comfortable second floor the boys had yielded to her. It was less draughty. But he listened as she walked across the creaky floor and paused. He automatically invoked magesight to watch her. She hovered at the top of the stairs.
For a terrified moment Rondal thought she might want to speak to him again, perhaps plead with him about her fate. He nearly called a Cat’s Eye spell, which would have revealed much more detail to him. But he didn’t, for once appreciative of the concealing darkness. He let magesight drop, too, and then closed his eyes altogether.
He listened as the steps moved in another direction – and Rondal realized that Belsi was headed toward where Tyndal was bedded down.
Part of him was relieved, another part of him became cold, his heart hardening at the thought. He could hear whisp
ers, almost audible (and well-within the range of the Long Ears) but he made no effort to discern them. He didn’t want to know what they were talking about. He could guess.
Feeling humiliated and rejected, he tried to calm his angry mind by reciting various brutal hymns to Duin in his head. Better than spells, he decided. He might accidentally cast something nasty, the way he felt.
He had nearly drifted off to sleep when he heard another creek, and then a shadow loomed over him in the darkness. A feminine shadow.
“Sir Rondal?” she whispered hesitantly. “Are you awake?”
“What is it, Belsi?” he asked, tiredly, with exaggerated patience.
She didn’t answer. Or rather, she answered by crouching down and sliding into his bedding beside him. She wore nothing, he discovered. Her bare skin smelled of fresh soap and dried herbs.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Say nothing, my lord,” she pleaded in the darkness. “Ask no questions, speak no words,” she commanded. Before he could consider responding, her mouth was on his.
Tyndal? He squeaked, mind-to-mind, in a panic. What—?
Shut up and be a goddamn knight, came the harsh reply. It was a command, not a suggestion.
Rondal had a hard time doing that with Belsi’s soft, compliant body plastered against his own. It was the fulfillment of weeks of fantasies and dreams, and his body rejoiced with every fresh kiss. Yet Rondal’s mind was in turmoil, still reeling from the rejection and anger she’d inspired. The entanglement of her deceit tainted the first of her kisses, but soon Rondal’s resolve crumbled, allured by the soft promise of her femininity.
Her hands were soft and cool and very busy as she undressed him in the darkness. At first he just lay there passively and let her work at the laces, so dazed was he by confusion over her actions. Why was she there? Because she felt obligated? Because she wished to sway judgement? Because she felt scared and alone and wanted comfort? Because she honestly liked him? He was grateful for her admonition not to speak – he had a thousand questions, and he feared the answer to every one.
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 54
