Thal mumbled the words of the simple orthek and began to crash back and forth through the brush, shouting as he stomped. The sounds he made echoed and multiplied, giving the ghelem every indication that a patrol of wandering seklesem was about to attack them. Ghelem are not brave, being the least of Gar’s twisted creations, useful only to fill the lowest ranks of his armies. They seldom grew taller than four feet and had the intelligence, according to Gar, of a stone. When aroused, they were extremely strong for their small stature. Gar prized them for their ability to tunnel and work with stone. It is said that an army of ghelem could pull down the walls of any city in a few hours, if aroused and in large numbers.
Thal noticed the ghelem dropping their weapons and turning to flee. “After them! A ghelwu for every head!” The gangly maghi grabbed a fallen branch and used it to beat back the brush as he ran in the direction of the fleeing ghelem. When he turned toward the wounded wethi, his eyes met those of a single, uncommonly large gheli, not fooled by his chicanery.
“Filthy lone wethi,” the gheli’s voice hissed passed his yellow teeth. His face was vaguely pig-shaped; he reeked of dung. “I no fool tricky voice! I gut you hang you stink flesh! Crows eat you!” The gheli rushed Thal with his sword swinging.
Thal mumbled, “podstolon,” and a root rose from the earth, tripping the charging gheli. The maghi easily parried the sword stroke with his stout branch, then broke the branch on the gheli’s thick skull. The sword fell from the gheli’s now limp fingers. Thal took the sword, swung, and separated the gheli’s head from his shoulders. The white maghi looked once at his handiwork, turned and took two steps before the contents of his stomach stained the grass of the glade. Thal continued to retch until he managed to crawl away from the dead gheli and his foul smell. Thal’s stomach continued to churn as he stumbled to the wounded wethi. The wethi was tall with sandy hair and gray eyes and looked familiar to Thal–the second seklesi in my vukeetu, he thought. His clothes were filthy and tattered and hung loosely on an emaciated frame.
“Many thanks” the wethi croaked. “I thought I would be tonight’s gheli feast.”
“My master’s tower is near,” Thal said, “if you can put your arm over my shoulders . . . ?”
The wethi sucked in air as Thal squatted and tried to lift the wethi’s arm onto his shoulders. “The pain!” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Thal stopped and thought for a moment. “I will cause you to sleep and call for assistance.” Thal cleared his mind, touched the wethi’s forehead, and spoke the word: “supno.” The wethi sighed and relaxed, falling at once into a deep sleep. Thal slipped the wethi’s arm over his shoulders, wrapped an arm around the wethi’s waist, and straightened his legs, easily lifting the wethi. He lifted his iron amulet with his free hand. “Master, I have him.”
Yellow light flashed to life, surrounding the young maghi and his wounded companion. The light lifted them slowly into the air and carried them above the treetops to the tower’s roof where Kalamar and Myron stood waiting for them. Myron quickly examined the wounded wethi, his hands glowing green as they moved over the wounded wethi. The Headmaster’s hands moved to the wethi’s forehead, where the kailu poured healing energy into the wethi; his color changed, looking healthier.
“The wound itself is not critical, but much time has passed since it occurred. His mind is also weak from years of slavery. I will take him to Shigmar and place him with the healers,” Myron said. The kailu headmaster carefully took the wethi from Thal.
“Take good care of him, my friend,” Kalamar said.
Myron nodded. “Goodbye, my friends. Until we next meet.” The green-robed kailu stepped into the glowing circle and disappeared.
Kalamar waved his rod over the symbol. “Neki,” he said, canceling the orthek, causing the flames to dim and wink out. “A levitation orthek is active,” Kalamar told him, “descend with your rod.” The old maghi did not look at his apprentice as the flame-topped scarecrow held out his clay rod, took a breath, and stepped into the opening. Thal floated slowly through the trap door, disappearing from view. Kalamar flicked a final glance to the east, catching a fleeting glimpse of the threat waiting, hovering just beyond detection. An image of Nekerp with his sickle flashed across Kalamar’s thoughts. The old maghi sighed and followed his son and apprentice through the trap door. The door clunked shut, reminding him of the closing of a crypt.
Chapter 3
It is not the hidden trap–the one we do not see–that catches us, but the one hidden in plain sight.
Attributed to Fereghen Wulfrik, ruled 983-1027
As the sun cast its pink rays on the village of Artowgar, the young kortexi mounted his white and gray stallion, Wingfoot, and set off at a trot on the final leg of his journey to the Mountain of Vision. His thoughts were troubled, although he smiled and waved to the innkeeper, while he pondered the words of his master, the Wesento of Karble. On a similar bright morning, eight days before, the Wesento carefully uncovered his montista. The aged senior kortexi peered intently into the clear depths of the fist-sized stone, as was customary before sending the newly made kortexi to the Mountain for final testing. The Wesento turned pale.
“It cannot be!” He covered the stone with his hands, closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed silently. After a few moments passed in silence, the Wesento opened his eyes, removed his hands, and looked again into the depths of his montista. He drew breath sharply; tears wet his eyes and wrinkled cheeks. He raised his eyes slowly and with difficulty to the new kortexi; he pushed his long, white locks back from his face.
“Blakstar,” his voice cracked, heavy with age, “I cannot see the full measure of your greatness; you will accomplish things that kortexem since Sir Karble first established our order have dreamed of, but the path to that greatness leads through such misery and anguish that my heart nearly failed me to glimpse it. You are surrounded by an ocean of foes that howl for your ruin. They have become so powerful that even the One himself may not be able to protect you from them all. You walk barefoot upon the edge of a sword: to stray would lead to our utter ruin, to walk this path will be as painful to you as walking the blade’s edge.” The Wesento stopped and sobbed, covering his montista with its golden velvet cloth. “Remember, you are the lump of coal that yields a diamond following extreme pressures and heat, for a diamond you will be, though all the fires of Kolu come to torture and refine you, though your suffering pushes you to the threshold of death. Be bold but cautious: the happiness and lives of generations yet unborn depend upon your successful transformation from coal to diamond.”
He had been at first shaken by the Wesento’s words, starting at every shadow and sound of approaching travelers. Yet no sea of foes had attacked him: his journey thus far had been quiet and pleasant, belying the Wesento’s words. The road south from Karble to Dolvert, by ferry across Misty Lake to Outlag, and from Outlag to Artowgar were as peaceful and free from incident as any traveler could wish. The seklesem patrolling the way told tales of tranquil travelers, unmolested by rogue bands of ghelem or marauding purem, as if all forces of evil had been withdrawn. However, Blakstar knew that many creatures of evil walked unseen to normal eyes, creatures that, as his skills matured, he would be able to detect. Perhaps they were the sea of foes seen by the Wesento; then again, perhaps his foes merely waited somewhere ahead, when his path left the main road and the people traveling it for the way through the forested slopes of the coastal range of rolling hills bordering the Western Ocean. Seklesem patrolled this area heavily to protect the young kortexem as they journeyed to the mountain, but the seklesem, although the best soldiers, foresters, and trackers, could not be in all places at once. An ambush needed only seconds to occur, and the young kortexi would lay by the trail, dead from a quick knife thrust or silent arrow. Many tales of this kind were told in Karble, as also tales of kortexem rescued from ruin at the last moment by a company of seklesem tracking their assailants. Blakstar frowned; his eyes searched every shadow, caught every movement; hi
s ears strained at the sounds following him, listening for any hint of hostile pursuit. He saw farmers and farm wives headed into their fields, shepherds leading their flocks into the hills, and heard the sounds of other travelers on their way south. A light breeze, from the west, stirred the grass and caressed his cheeks, bringing with it the scent of fir and cedar mixed with the salty tang of the sea. The day promised to be hot.
Shortly after midmorning, the road and river turned to the east, and the kortexi left the road and found the ford, crossing the Misty River and entering the narrow trail that led to the Mountain. The trail climbed into the coastal range next to one of the many streams that fed the Misty River. Blakstar stopped beside the stream to rest and water Wingfoot and drink the clear running water. His teeth ached as he drank the ice-cold water, thick with minerals, and a cone of cold formed below his heart, low and left in his chest. He splashed water on his face, head, and neck; he shivered as water droplets slid down his back beneath his tunic. Wingfoot stamped and blew before he joined his rider for another drink from the mountain stream. Blakstar felt an odd tingle between his shoulders, but it was not from the water; Wingfoot jerked his head up, ears rotating. The questing kortexi looked across the stream, leaping to his feet and drawing his sword. They stood this way for a time, straining to find the source of the sound that startled them both. The horse, chin still dripping, sniffed and blew, with his ears pointed across the stream. Momentarily satisfied, Wingfoot lowered his head again to the water to drink, ears still trained across the stream. Blakstar saw nothing, heard nothing more, yet he still felt the tingle, now in the center of his sternum, as if he had been touched lightly by an unseen hand. Wingfoot startled a second time, looking behind them; Blakstar now felt the tingle in his back and chest, no matter which way he turned. He grabbed the reins and mounted quickly, urging Wingfoot to a trot up the trail.
Noon came, and Blakstar’s sense of watchfulness increased. He felt, rather than saw, enemies before and behind him. He believed they increased in number as the tingling in his back and chest increased in strength, such that he felt those behind pushed him forward while those ahead resisted his progress. He stopped again to water and rest Wingfoot and allow the stallion to munch on some grain while the kortexi chewed dried meat and hard, wheat flour biscuits. Both, however, became restless after only a few minutes passed; Blakstar could not finish the strip of meat he held, and Wingfoot, blowing in his feedbag as his ears rotated one way then another, finally stamped impatiently and shook his head. The kortexi removed the feedbag and stowed it in his saddlebags with his lunch. As he tied closed the flap of his saddlebags, he felt an odd heat about his person, a heat he immediately recognized. He reacted according to the formula drilled into him by his kortexi masters: turn toward the feeling, duck, and roll in a direction perpendicular to the source of the feeling. But the maghi whose will guided the orthek anticipated such a move and merely directed the red shimmering net to fall on the kortexi as he rolled, entangling him in its glowing lines. When the texarti encircled Blakstar, his limbs stiffened suddenly, frozen in the act of drawing his sword, and, half risen to his feet, he fell, a statue on its side.
“Well, well, well,” clanked a voice, laughing at Blakstar’s plight. Black shoes and robes came into Blakstar’s view, cheek pressed against the grass, eyes staring at the ground. “Another mighty kortexi,” the voice continued, mocking, “captured by one of the simplest, yet powerful, ortheks.” Blakstar felt the web alter as it conformed more closely to the shape of his body, wrapping tightly around his arms, legs, and head. Suddenly, Blakstar found that he was standing alone in darkness and silence, and he was gripped by an icy fear that he had not before known.
Kovaine stood slowly, the pain from whip lashes still sharp although she had applied the ointment she had stolen from one of the red kailum–a fair exchange for how rough he had been with her. She had slept late, much later than usual, as she had been kept awake by her masters, beaten for refusing to join the Magsamel’s group of favored karam; it must be past noon, and she felt a rumble in her stomach, but the thought of eating made her ill. She belted on a silk robe, hoping that it would irritate her sore skin less than the rough-spun wool of her normal work clothes. She wished that she could get a message to her mother across the river in Belford, asking her to bring a supply of healing herbs and salves when she visited the red kailu fortress in three days; it was only her mother’s relationship with the Master of Arms that gave her any relief from the horror of her life as a slave to the red kailum. She looked at her face in the small mirror above her washstand and saw dark circles beneath her blue eyes along with the dirty tracks of her tears; her blonde hair looked stringy and dirty, and her scalp itched terribly. She recognized that she should wash her hair and face before leaving her cell, but she ruthlessly put down the urge, reaching into a clay pot she kept hidden behind the wash stand. She pulled out a handful of ashes, shared it between both hands, then artfully tossed the ashes onto her head and hair. With the ash still clinging to her fingers and palms, she dirtied her face, covering the tear tracks, then ran both hands through her shoulder length hair, ensuring that the golden color did not show through the ash and oil. She looked at her small wardrobe and considered throwing the dirty black dress over her silk robe, since she would be beaten again if anyone caught her wearing silk to work in the kitchens. Her mother kept trying to convince her that her beatings would be fewer if she would become pliable and do what her masters wanted, which included frequent baths and attention to her appearance–to attract their notice, her mother often said. Their notice was precisely what she was trying to avoid, as she had nearly become one of the Magsamel’s favorites on the previous day. She shuddered at the thought, knowing that few survived the attentions of the head of the red kailu order for very long.
Better not to be too obvious, she thought, taking the black wool work dress from her wardrobe and preparing to pull it over her head.
Her door crashed open, and a magluku flared in the doorway, momentarily blinding her.
“Are you certain this is the right one?” a voice that clanked like old bones asked.
“Yes, my lord,” a simpering voice that sounded familiar to her replied, “this one is the daughter of the kara across the river–the one who is a favorite of Master Lufekuro and visits each week, bringing several. . . .”
“I don’t care about her filthy habits!” the bony voice interrupted. “As long as this is her daughter, then she is the one I want; bring her!”
Rough hands grabbed both her arms and dragged her from her room into the hall; before her eyes could adjust to the dim light in the hallway outside her room, someone blindfolded her, then pulled her silk robe off her shoulders and arms. Her arms were forced in front of her and bound tightly together with a leather thong.
“She is quite dirty, my lord,” the simpering voice noted, “should we wash her?”
There was a pause as if the other were considering the question.
“We should at least rinse the dirt out of her hair,” the bony voice answered. “Our master does want that wretched kortexi to have some idea what she looks like, beyond her naked body,” he finished and began to laugh, which sounded to her as if someone were shaking a bag filled with old bones. Several other voices laughed along with the bony voice. “You!” the bony voice snapped imperiously. “Grab that pitcher of water from her room–it is all we have time for.”
“Bend over kara,” the simpering voice whispered next to her ear, “although the only surprise you’ll get is from the water!” he laughed wickedly, causing other voices to laugh.
“Keep on task!” the bony voice snapped. “You can play with her after we have fulfilled the Great Lord’s orders.”
She was roughly bent forward and the contents of her water pitcher were slowly poured over her head; someone else scrubbed at her hair and scalp while the lukewarm water was dumped on her hair; it splashed on the stone floor and wet her feet and legs up past her knees. The strong hands
jerked her upright, and the water still on her head began running and dripping onto her shoulders and back, causing the lash marks to sting.
“He’ll be most impressed with her,” the simpering voice noted sarcastically.
“Get that robe on her,” the bony voice growled, “we don’t have time for your usual nonsense!”
“Yes, my lord,” the simpering voice replied, and the hands threw an itchy wool robe onto her shoulders. She drew a sharp breath, feeling pain from her neck to her buttocks; the robe was belted tightly around her, pinning her arms more closely against her front. The hands pushed her forward, holding her up when she stumbled, and she passed through something that felt like a curtain of ice, stepping from stone onto rough ground. The scent of pine and fir filled her nostrils, with an undercurrent of smoke and salt. They stopped moving.
“Wait here,” the bony voice said, “I will return with our guest within the hour.”
“As you wish, my lord,” the simpering voice replied then fell silent.
Kovaine heard sounds around her, and she soon realized that the sounds were not coming from the space immediately around where she stood blindfolded but were more distant, as if the place where she stood were avoided by the life around it. She recognized several familiar bird calls, but the one most prevalent was that of gulls, and if she focused her attention to her left, she could make out the sounds of waves rolling onto a beach. The scents told her that she must be in a forest near the sea, but where that forest was, or which sea, she had no idea; the nearest forest to Belford was a swamp, nowhere near the sea. Her thoughts shifted back to the conversation of her captors, and she wondered why they came looking for her, specifically, what they meant to do with her, and why this kortexi? She only knew that the order was a northern one, filled with prudish zealots, worse than other northerners, who were some sort of holy warriors that would kill a kara on sight–what did she have to do with any northerner, let alone, a kortexi? Her wounds hurt, and she wanted to sit down, at least, if her captors would allow it.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 5
