by Cheryl Dyson
******
Brydon held his breath as Sellaris knelt and unlocked the chest after taking the key from the man. She flipped open the lid and gently lifted out the most incredible thing he had ever seen.
The Gauntlet of Ven-Kerrick.
Brydon was not sure what he had expected it to look like, just an ordinary glove, perhaps, but the gauntlet sparkled silver in the firelight, nearly glowing from its metal surface and throwing tiny rays of light into the night from clustered jewels. The thing was large, made to fit hand, wrist, and most of the forearm. It looked huge on Sellaris.
Keev, apparently overawed, reached out to touch it, but Sellaris’ voice halted him.
“Try it,” she goaded.
Keev withdrew his hand. “How is it that you can touch the thing, when no man can?”
“I am not a man.” She shrugged. “It does me no good, anyway. I can wear it, but I cannot wield it.”
So the legends were true. The gauntlet could only be used by one of Kerrick’s kin. Sellaris put away the gauntlet and locked the chest. Brydon let out his breath.
“How does your Dark Master propose to use it, then?” Keev persisted, rubbing his beard.
“Do you want to come with me and ask him yourself?” Sellaris asked in a honeyed voice. Keev snarled. He gestured to his men and mounted his horse.
“If you need anything else,” he said, “I will be in Ruby.” With that, he rode off with his entourage following. Sellaris gestured to the Ven-Kerrick man, who bent down to pick up the chest. Brydon stepped out of the trees and pointed an arrow at the man’s heart.
“I would leave that if I were you,” he said softly. The man looked up and paled. Sellaris whirled; Lavan and Garyn leaped to their feet.
“No one move!” Brydon barked.
Toryn swore, loud enough only for Brydon’s ears, but he echoed it with such a mental barrage that Brydon winced.
//What in the bloody name of the third Redolian chief are you doing? Is there insanity in your
family?//
//You’re making me dizzy,// Brydon sent. //Are you going to help me or not?// Cursing followed.
“Brydon. How nice to see you again,” Sellaris said. She began to walk toward him. “I know you won’t hurt me. It’s not in your nature.”
Alyn stepped out of the trees with her whip in hand. “I have no such nature,” she stated. “I will gladly kill every last one of you for what you did to me. And I have come for the horses.”
“I have no qualms about feathering traitors of the Concurrence,” Brydon said loudly in order to give the Ven-Kerrick men something to think about.
“You have no idea what you are getting involved with, Brydon,” Sellaris warned, keeping her eyes on Alyn.
“I’m afraid I do,” Brydon replied. “Only too well.”
Toryn entered the circle of firelight and strolled over to Lavan, kicking at the dagger he had been surreptitiously reaching for.
“Hello, Liven.” He grinned. “Remember me?”
Sellaris’ brother spat. “I shall kill you one day.”
“Which day is that? I must mark it down so I don’t miss it.”
“We are taking the gauntlet now,” Brydon announced.
“We outnumber you,” Sellaris said.
“Oh? You would, but there are more of us in the trees,” Toryn said. “How many, do you suppose? Remember Davin? He has decent aim with a bow.”
The men they had spotted joining Sellaris’ party days ago were to Brydon’s right, almost out of his line of vision. They peered into the forest, as did the two Ven-Kerrick men still near the wagon. As if to confirm their fears, Shevyn walked out of the woods. She carried her sword naked in her fist and did not pause, but walked straight to the chest that contained the gauntlet. Her gaze was fixed on the Ven-Kerrick man who stood tall and unmoving under Brydon’s arrow. She stopped in front of him.
Unaccountably, the man flushed and dropped his eyes, looking almost mortified. Shevyn’s hand flashed out and caught him a ringing blow on the cheek. Instead of taking her hostage or even retaliating, the man only hung his head like a punished child. Shevyn turned her back on him and walked into Brydon’s line of fire, and then she knelt to pick up the chest. The man did not move to stop her, even when she stepped up to Sellaris and tore the chain holding the key from her fingers.
Sellaris glared as Shevyn turned her back on them all and headed for the surrounding forest. She had nearly reached the trees when pandemonium erupted. Half-naked warriors burst from the woods, screaming in a strange, foreign tongue. The words sounded like gibberish, guttural and terrifying, shouted at high volume.
Brydon was stunned motionless for a moment; their limbs were covered in bizarre black designs and their clothing was adorned with multicolored feathers. They seemed like otherworldly creatures.
A spear narrowly missed Brydon, breaking his shocked paralysis. He crouched and loosed an arrow at one painted warrior. He saw Toryn deflect a spear with his sword and knock Lavan upside the head in the same motion.
Brydon heard a scream from Sellaris, but it was Shevyn who caught his attention. She cut down a warrior who appeared in front of her with one brutal stroke and dove past him into the trees, clutching the gauntlet cask to her chest. Four other warriors followed her, still shrieking. They reminded Brydon of baying hounds chasing a hare.
“Shevyn!” he yelled. Without pausing to think, he crashed into the brush after them. From the direction they traveled, Shevyn was obviously trying to reach the horses. Brydon heard shouts to the left and knew some of the newcomers had cut off Shevyn’s access. He saw a flash of movement—a painted man! He changed his course to follow, easily picking up the excitement of the hunt from the man’s mind.
The terrain began to slope upward as Brydon chased them. Shevyn had headed up the mountainside. The trees thinned briefly and Brydon saw her pursuers. One of the men heard him and spun around, wielding a wickedly curved blade that looked razor sharp. The warrior howled and charged, but Brydon raised his bow. Before the warrior had covered half the distance, Brydon had drawn, fitted, and loosed an arrow. The man’s howl ceased abruptly as the arrow entered his throat. He collapsed, dead, at Brydon’s feet. Brydon skirted the body, feeling no emotion.
He hurried on and notched a new arrow automatically; the next man went down with a shaft in his leg. Brydon passed him and the warrior cut at him when he ran by, but Brydon leaped out of the way and went on. The other two were farther ahead, gaining on Shevyn. The thought of their curved blades cutting into her flesh made Brydon push himself faster. It was steeper going and she had to be tiring.
Rain spattered Brydon as he entered a clearing. Ahead lay a stretch of gray rock dangerously covered in loose gravel. Shevyn was halfway across, treading lightly, and Brydon’s heart was in his throat for a moment.
“Adona, don’t let her slip,” he prayed. A misstep would send her sliding over the abyss that gaped away beyond the rock. She could not even use her arms for balance with the cask gripped in her hands.
The first warrior was close behind her and gaining. Brydon quickly loosed an arrow at him, but the man slipped on the shale and the arrow missed. The warrior miraculously regained his balance. Brydon hissed and grabbed another arrow. He breathed a sigh of relief when Shevyn reached the end of the loose shale and plunged into the trees on the other side.
The final warrior blocked Brydon’s view of Shevyn’s nearest pursuer. He moved more carefully, holding his hands out for stability and trotting across more slowly than his companion.
Brydon waited a moment, sighted, and released the arrow. It thudded into the warrior’s right sandal and his foot skewed sideways. Flailing arms did nothing to stop the resulting slide. The warrior gained momentum until he skated over the edge of the rock, screaming, and disappeared. Brydon heard a muffled thud far below. The other warrior glanced back before leaping into the trees after Shevyn.
Brydon slung the bow over his shoulder and climbed onto the loose gravel. Th
e wind blew rain into his face, but he ignored it as he hurried on. He slipped once and his right foot shifted sideways. A muscle pulled in his groin and brought him to his knees. His left hand clawed desperately as he started to slide and his fingers caught a solid outcropping. He tore a substantial amount of skin from his fingers, but managed to regain his feet with his heart pounding in his chest. He crossed the remainder of the dangerous area without further incident and raced onward as the rain came down in earnest.
Brydon followed the trail of broken branches until he reached a small, flat, treeless plateau. He stopped short at the sight of the huge warrior holding Shevyn with a curved blade at her throat. The chest lay on its side near the edge of the cliff.
“Stay back,” the man said with a very thick, guttural accent, as though struggling to form words.
“Let her go!”
“She make fine sacrifice.” The man grinned and Brydon’s blood went cold. An arrow was notched in his bow, but it faced downward. To raise the weapon would likely cause the man to cut her throat. Slowly, ever so slowly, Brydon drew back the string.
“You can have the gauntlet,” he said loudly. “Just let her go!”
“Think maybe I take gaunt-let, take girl,” the man countered. “How you stop me?”
“Like this,” Brydon said. He raised the bow and released the arrow in a single motion, sending a benediction with it. The man’s eyes widened until the arrow destroyed one of them. Shevyn shoved him aside and jumped away as he fell to the ground and convulsed. He was dead.
Brydon ran to Shevyn; she trembled, gasping with exertion. He held her close and she clung to him as he murmured reassuring phrases. Brydon stroked her hair and raised his face to the sky, weak with relief. The rain poured down.
“Well done, Falaran,” came a voice Brydon had hoped never to hear again.
