The Forgotten Magic

by Kelly Peasgood

"Then we must turn to how quickly we might gather strength of arms to counter what magic cannot," Stefan said.

  Destiny lost whatever else the King added to that sentiment as twin flames of cruelty brushed past her perimeter ward, familiar presences both. Her head wrenched south with a jerk, gaze unfocused, breath hitching in her throat. The memory of pain and torment slithered down her spine, raising gooseflesh along her arms as she suppressed a chill. A soul warped into a creature who enjoyed doling out exquisite torture in the search for power entered her perception, interwoven with the overwhelming ambition of her brother.

  She blinked, saw them for just an instant―Nathan and Tyrandel riding companionably together; a bruised and bloodied Whillim trussed up on the back of a horse, unable to mask the horror glistening on his face; armed men surrounding them all as they headed north, the sun hanging like a dire warning on their right as they rode through a field―then darkness.

  Destiny blinked again, found herself face to face with a pale Wizard Norbert. Emily crouched by her side, hand curled tight around Destiny's arm. Destiny glanced down at the concern in the little librarian's plain face, couldn't offer any consolation.

  "He's crossed the ward," she whispered. Bone-white and exhausted, Emily merely nodded, then stood, facing the King.

  "We have no time left, Sire," she intoned.

  "Do what needs doing," Stefan instructed, then began to outline what he required of his Council. Destiny didn't hear his edicts, her gaze focused on Emily as the young woman pulled Destiny to her feet.

  "Come on," Emily whispered, oblivious to the Councillors as she tugged on Destiny's hand and led their little entourage to the door. "I have an idea."

  Chapter 21

  Cristof hadn't managed much sleep, but then, neither had any man with him. Milos and his company had set up their own meagre camp a suitable distance from where the captured Prince sat in misery. Not an ideal location, given their necessary proximity to an enemy, but close enough to that other camp to keep watch. They hadn't dared a fire despite the chill to the air, wrapping themselves in blankets and shivering in the deepening night. Better cold than dead, and Cristof had no illusions what would happen should Wizards Nathan or Tyrandel discover their presence―Milos had provided their names as he and Corporal Joseph had shared the King's concerns with the assassin as they settled in and the sun set. The sounds of night had drawn around them as darkness deepened―crickets chirping as they sang to their companions, bats chittering as they winged overhead in search of insects, the distant mournful howl of a wolf. But a disturbing lack of any auditory cues from the direction of Nathan's camp, hearing stolen as much as sight by what red-haired Victor had called a magic mirror, put Cristof on edge, an uneasiness shared by the mercenaries. Not conducive to sleep.

  Still, none had expected that other camp to break while full dark continued to rule the sky.

  Cristof stirred from an uncomfortable torpor, his back pressed against the base of a tree, at the smallest breath of movement sliding past. He identified the shadow who crouched to speak to Milos, propped against the adjacent tree, as the scout Victor by the twin braids falling down past the man's shoulders.

  "Sound's changed, the mantle edging north" Victor spoke quietly. "I'd a missed it if they hadn't crossed a patch of starlight."

  "They're riding in the night?" Milos demanded in a subdued voice as he gathered himself and rose to his feet. Cristof joined him, as did Joseph. He felt, more than saw, Victor take in his presence before addressing his Captain.

  "They can hide wizard light within a magic mirror as easily as men," Victor replied. "Darkness won't hinder them, but it's a bitch to us. What do you suggest?"

  Milos cursed under his breath.

  "How well can they see beyond their mirror?" Cristof asked. "Would they detect a light following them?"

  "Mirror works one way, for them and against us," Victor said. "They see out, but we can't see in."

  "They have no reason to suspect our presence, or anyone's," Joseph murmured. "But they'd be stupid not to have lookouts."

  "Kid's right," Milos said. "We follow with light, they see us. We wait for dawn, they have a head start, but we're still breathing."

  Cristof chewed on that for a moment.

  "How visible is this ripple their magic causes?" he asked Victor. "Will it keep them off the main roads to avoid traffic, or could they push right past farmers with no one the wiser?"

  "Depends on how much of a hurry they're in, and whether they care if someone sees them," the scout said.

  "If it were me and I wanted to approach unseen," Milos mused, "I'd keep to lesser roads just in case. Might take more time, but I'd have surprise on my side longer. Moving with magic to light my way, I could mitigate any delays by travelling under the added cover of night and resting late in the day."

  "Giving any who might try to follow them a disadvantage," Cristof felt his lip twist in a slight snarl. "Unless we know where they're headed," he added, strategies realigning in his mind.

  "What are you thinking?" Milos wanted to know.

  "While they trample through farmers' fields beneath the stars, you can swing ahead and warn the King via the roads. Perhaps still a race, but one I'm willing to bet you'd win."

  "And what do you plan to do while we race for the safety of the kingdom?" Joseph asked.

  "I'll follow behind the wizards, see what I can do to slow them down."

  "You cross that ward, they'll know you're there," Victor warned. "Giving them fair warning's a sure way to get yourself killed. Wizards protect their hides so no arrow or knife can penetrate them."

  "These ones especially, from what Stefan said," Milos confirmed.

  "Princes don't," Cristof replied calmly. He couldn't see any of them in the black night, but he could imagine Joseph's piercing glare. "It won't stop their advance, but it will remove a source of information. Without Whillim to guide their steps to the safest and swiftest paths, they lose an advantage and a hostage. At the very least, having to deal with me, wondering how I found them, if I ride alone, will give them pause."

  A moment of silence while they digested his words. Whatever Milos intended, Cristof would follow his own instructions. If he had to give these mercenaries the slip, he would do so; he just hoped they would send word to the King, for he feared he wouldn't have time himself. He had but the one bird left. Fast and durable, these special birds flew continuously once released, and while they would fly in the dark, as this last bird's companion had done the previous evening, they wouldn't start a journey with no light to guide them. About the only limitation Cristof had ever encountered with Prichard's messenger birds.

  He hoped to encounter the rearguard of Nathan's men as soon after dawn as possible, leaving no time to launch a message, even if he knew what message to send. They had already warned the King of Nathan's little army; Cristof could only offer the confirmation or failure of slowing or eliminating the threat, and he suspected he wouldn't survive either outcome.

  A pulse of maroon light suddenly flashed in front of Cristof's eyes, illuminating the outline of Milos' arm as the mercenary leader extended his hand, palm up. In that hand, he held the ring with its large round stone, the gentle throbbing growing steadily dimmer as the wizards it tracked rode further away.

  "Do what you must, I'm done with it," rasped Milos. "We'll head to Riverbend, collect our pay as we deliver your warning."

  Cristof slowly reached out and plucked the ring from Milos' fingers.

  "Good luck," he said, then turned and followed the fading light to where they had picketed their horses, leaving the mercenaries behind to rouse the rest of their men. Footsteps followed him. He didn't turn around as he checked his mount's saddle, left loosely on the horse's back the previous night. Unhooking the cage of the messenger bird to leave it near Milos' horse, Cristof flexed his wrist to feel the knife up his sleeve.

  "I have my orders, Corporal," he said quietly as he worked. "The kingdom comes first, even if a Prince must pay the
price."

  Joseph merely moved to his own horse, readying the beast.

  "That's why I'm here," the ginger-haired young man replied, voice subdued and solemn. "If you don't have to worry about watching your back, you're more likely to succeed."

  Cristof glanced at him as best he could from the corner of his eye, but the ring barely lit more than his fist now. He could read nothing of the waiting shadow at his side. With a resigned sigh, he set foot to stirrup, swung up into his saddle, sensed Joseph mimic his action.

  "Step carefully, Corporal. I'll not wait."

  "Lead on, Cristof. We've a kingdom to protect."

  Cristof snorted a surprised laugh, then nudged his reluctant mount into the night, a foolish young guard at his side.

  ***

  Whillim couldn't see out of his left eye, but at least the blood had stopped trickling into his right. He didn't think these brutish soldiers had broken any of his bones when they beat him, though his ribs ached abominably and he knew hideous bruises must decorate his entire body. He had ceased to have any feeling in his backside as he rode, beyond a constant numbness that he suspected would blossom into the sensation of stinging nettles whenever his captors saw fit to haul him from the saddle. Judging from the lay of the sun just brushing the tops of the trees as it crested in the sky past his right shoulder, that wouldn't happen any time soon, despite hours of riding.

  Nathan's soldiers had tossed the Prince on his mount long before the sun had risen, hands bound tightly before him so that he could grasp the saddle's pommel and little else. Whillim didn't know how many hours they had travelled under the eerie light of the fat wizard's magic globe before dawn had begun to chase away the shadows of night, but they hadn't stopped for more than a handful of minutes to give the unmounted soldiers a brief respite and to water the horses in the first few hours of pale daylight. With only a dozen horses―plus Otto's―and the four mounts carrying supplies, the group didn't move faster than the steady jog which the soldiers maintained well enough, but they made steady and constant progress nonetheless. Certainly better than Whillim could have managed on foot. None complained about the pace, perhaps too winded at each stop to find a voice. Or, more likely, simply wise enough to keep any dissatisfaction from reaching the ears of the surly wizards. Whillim didn't anticipate their intention to stop overlong in the next few hours either, and he wondered if he'd resemble anything other than one huge blackened and blistered bruise before they finally made camp again.

  Why had he left Cranshaw? Had sitting around the comforts of the Fortress really caused that much stress? Sure, he still languished under the thumb of his smug brother, but that beat jostling about in pain, his mind's eye constantly seeing the horror imprinted on Otto's face in a death Whillim would prefer to avoid. Handing Stefan over to these wizards had seemed a decent compromise last evening before they had given him over to the fists and knives of their barbaric troops, but that slim possibility had grown hollow as the hours stretched. Even the brief hope that pursuit would find him and effect a rescue had faded into a haze of despair. None would find him wrapped in a shroud of magical camouflage, racing toward Riverbend in the company of murderers and thugs. Who could stand against such men? The only person he knew who might have a chance against these wizards likely languished in Stefan's dungeon, if she still lived, and even Desi had hidden from the dark man. What hope did a Prince who sold his country with a lie to save his life have?

  Whillim found his horse jerked to a halt. He slowly rolled his shoulders and craned his neck up, blinking wearily through his good eye as he struggled to take in his surroundings. Had they stopped to water the horses again? He didn't see a stream. In fact, it looked like they stood in the middle of a farmer's field, tufts of fresh green shoots floating on furrowed earth where their mounts hadn't yet trampled the ground. Trees lay behind them, an open expanse of land ahead. And two agitated wizards staring about themselves with disbelieving eyes.

  The dark haired one―Nathan, the fat man had called him―raised a hand in a come ahead gesture and Whillim suddenly found his mount led forward by the soldier nearest him. Without meaning to, Whillim dug in his heels as though he could spur his horse to flee. The beast snorted in confusion and balked, but the soldier didn't let go the reins, dragging the recalcitrant animal forward until the Prince sat far too close to the wizard.

  Whillim whimpered, hating the sound but unable to hide his fear. If Nathan noticed, he didn't react, his eyes scanning the area with a sweep of twilight intensity.

  "What is this place?" Nathan demanded.

  Whillim frowned, his abused eye blinking through the glare of sunlight while a chill wind whispered past. How the hell should Whillim know?

  "It's a farm," he finally replied, not having any other answer.

  A hand slapped the back of his head, causing Whillim to bite his lip. Fresh blood trickled down his chin.

  "Of course it's a farm, dolt," Tyrandel the Fat scowled as he circled to Whillim's other side, his mount puffing under its heavy burden. "What importance does it hold?"

  Whillim looked around again, seeing nothing different. He cringed as his terrified gaze swung between the pair.

  "It's just a farm," he whined. "There's nothing important here. Farms make food, that's it."

  "Then why ward it?" Nathan snarled, his own hand threatening Whillim's face. The Prince tried to curl in on himself, his desire to avoid the next blow overcoming the screaming agony already setting his torso ablaze.

  "I swear I don't know what you're talking about!" he cried out, bound arms raised as high as possible to shield his face.

  Nathan hesitated, arm still drawn back. He looked at Tyrandel.

  "A perimeter ward, then?" he asked.

  "To guard or protect, do you suppose?" Tyrandel wondered as he contemplated Nathan's question.

  "You tasted the flavour?" Nathan's voice lowered in anger even as his hand dropped to his side. Whillim could have wept in relief.

  Tyrandel frowned, glancing back the way they'd come, then his eyes widened.

  "Hints of yours and―"

  "Father's," Nathan growled. "Magic stolen by that bitch. It's Girl's ward."

  "If she knows we're coming―"

  "How far to Dalasmar Castle?" snapped Nathan. A slash of pain across his cheek told Whillim the wizard had asked him, not his companion. Whillim struggled to focus, not truly knowing where they stood, nor how far they had ridden. But Nathan didn't want to hear I don't know, so Whillim frantically scrambled in his mind for a mental map. He tried to tally distances before either man could lay a hand on him again.

  "Two days," he finally figured, "if you push the men hard. Perhaps a day longer if you continue to wind through farmland instead of taking the road."

  "This close, we're bound to catch her when she flees, whichever route we take," Tyrandel said. "Stealth might still serve us best. How far could she get?"

  "She's run for seven years," Nathan countered. "She'll run again. We'll take to the road." He turned a stare full of fervour on Whillim. "Find us the nearest road, Princeling."

  Whillim gingerly turned his stiff neck as much as he could, trying to place them. Assuming this farm traded goods with its neighbours, it should have a road that would lead to a village, to a town, then eventually to the capital. But where would he find that initial trail?

  One of the mounted soldiers pushed his horse forward, briefly blocking Whillim's perusal of the landscape. He scowled, trying to see past the man, then hesitated, his gaze drawn back. Why did he look familiar? Likely one who had taken to beating him, but Whillim couldn't help but wonder if his association didn't go further.

  With a dazed realization, he remembered seeing that face above a different uniform. Instead of the boiled leathers and battered armour the man currently wore, Whillim recalled livery in the King's colours gracing that surprisingly powerful form. He briefly met the hazel eyes of the deaf-mute man he had thought a simpleton, seeing now a cold calculation meet his regard. For one
glorious moment, Whillim allowed himself to believe rescue had come, and he knew he dare not give his saviour away. So he turned back to the wizards glaring at him and pointed vaguely with his chin to the left.

  "Nearest road lies yonder," he said.

  And then blinding agony slammed into his neck above his collarbone. Whillim's jaw dropped as his eye bulged. Not a rescue, he realised belatedly, but before he could curse Stefan for yanking away this one last hope, the Prince of Dalasham fell from his horse, deaf to the chaos around him as his life's blood seeped around the blade of an assassin.

  ***

  Cristof couldn't believe his luck, daren't rely on it now even while he exploited it to the fullest.

  He and Joseph had ridden through the dark early hours with only the nebulous glow of the strange ring Milos had given him to light their way. He had pushed the horses as hard as he dared in the black of night, giving them their head whenever possible. A few near-disastrous missteps along seldom trod paths had left hearts hammering hard against rib cages, but they had encountered signs of their quarry with first light―physical traces, not just the pulsing glow of magic tracking magic. They had continued to follow the trail of hoof- and boot prints until the line of trees ended mere moments ago, a still steaming pile of horse dung speaking to the nearness of those they pursued.

  Cristof had chosen that moment to make his move.

  "They'll know we've crossed their boundary the moment we do," he had said to Joseph as they briefly pulled their horses to a halt. "But they won't know our number. Our only hope lies in surprise. Last chance to change your mind."

  "Let's go," the green-eyed man had replied without hesitation.

  Cristof flicked two knives into his hands, saw the gleam of steel appear in Joseph's. Heels slapped the flanks of horses in near unison, and the pair rode from the concealment of trees and through an invisible wall that shimmered to reveal a small army. To Cristof's shock, no one noticed them. The group ahead stopped, but they didn't look back for pursuers. They seemed to stare about in confusion as the two wizards at the fore searched for something Cristof couldn't discern. He didn't know what had distracted them, but he would take full advantage of the opportunity provided. In a flash, he altered what little plan he had formed.