Shadowmage

by Max Keith

  “Yes.” Firkis yawned into the back of his hand. “Back when I was banging tin at the fortress, I think most of our copper and a little of our gold came from the Theads. The barrels were all marked Lower Thead, but who knows? Maybe that’s just where the loads were put together.” He shrugged. “Mines are in our near future, either way. If we go to Upper Thead for a few days, we’ll eventually have to go down from there after the fortress falls. And then, naturally, we’ll pass through Lower Thead.”

  Poildrin stared. It was the most words he’d ever heard at one time out of Firkis the smith. And he wasn’t yet done, apparently. “I reckon it’ll be all huts and hovels, badly thatched and made of rock. No green, no crops. Waterfall driving a mill. Just like every other village we’ve seen.”

  He nodded and looked away, to where Alorin had just appeared from around a big boulder down toward where the stream hissed over a cliff in a short fall. She walked with a certain frowning viciousness, and he knew without having to look at her hands that she’d come up empty on her hunt. And so did Firkis. “Biscuits again,” he observed sadly, and then his big brown eyes closed once more and he settled back into his doze.

  Poildrin looked down. It was going to be a long and anxious day.

  * * *

  A wandering old man, eager to be gone once he’d hailed them, let them know they were, indeed, on the right path. He frowned up at them and spat. “You folk Royals, or Imperials?”

  They looked at each other blankly; the man was not a threat, that was for sure, but this was a strange part of the continent. They weren’t even sure which country they were in, up here amongst the craggy grey wastes. In truth, it hardly mattered; the whole region had changed hands so many times, it was doubtful the old man himself knew who he paid his taxes to. So Poildrin chose honesty.

  “Do you really care?” he asked listlessly, and he was relieved when the old man cackled toothlessly and jerked a thumb up the narrow path.

  “If you seek the Theads, you’ll find them up there,” he grunted, shaking his head; it was obvious he could think of no reason at all for them to go there. “But I think they’ve got sufficient woolens, master.” He directed his words to Poildrin, but his eyes to Alorin. That was not uncommon. “They might be seeking other goods, though.” His gaze was stapled on the valkyrie’s thighs, and she pretended not to notice. Alorin Kaye was a fair-minded woman; let the man have his fun. Based on his dress and manner, the gods gave him little enough joy out of life.

  They left him to whatever that life was, ascending a dry streambed up its little valley. The day grew hot; before lunchtime they were leading the horses. “About three leagues, the man said,” Alorin observed. She was the only one of them still looking fresh and untroubled by the hike. “We might not get there by dark.”

  “Lower Thead comes first, though,” Poildrin reminded her shortly. He was profoundly annoyed with their progress; Shadowmage robes are hardly made for climbing on hot days. Or cold days, really; truth be told, the Mage Council designed the robes solely for their awe-inspiring effect on non-mages. Doing anything other than spellcasting or sitting at a dinner table was a struggle. Now he held the bottom of the robe well above his knees, and yet still he tripped with every third or fourth step. “We should at least be able to find a shed there.”

  Aimee sniffed. She was becoming, Poildrin decided, quite a disagreeable traveling companion. He’d never noticed that in her before. She’d always been an excellent healer and a kindly companion, but that had been back at the Tower, or on shorter and more inn-laden journeys. She’d never shown the sheer orneriness he’d been finding in her lately. Vaguely he wondered whether the explanation lay below, in whatever happened beneath a woman’s skirts with the turn of the moon; female biology was not something the Mage College chose to teach, so many of the workings down there remained opaque to him.

  He sighed; it didn’t matter. Like so much else about this journey, he supposed he’d simply need to accept that the universe wanted him to suffer. So he took Aimee’s foul temper and put it away in his mind into that same cluttered corner that held the abysmal southern weather, the lingering effects of Traxtell’s horrid company, Firkis’ stolid silence, and the stone working its way painfully along the sole of his boot as he trudged up the path.

  If he was being honest, too, the green eyes from Lurik’s Rest were also adding to the general shittishness of the week. On the one hand, he was grateful; Jerren had mesmerized him as effortlessly as she had so many years ago, and now he was just hours from finding her again. That thought should have made him giddy, but of course Poildrin Franx was a shadowmage; he could not become giddy. Instead, he focused on the teeth-gnashing annoyance of the dreams he’d been having lately, dreams from which he threatened to stain his blankets shamefully in his sleep.

  Aimee would never let him forget that; she did most of the washing.

  But there was no point dwelling on any of that now; the sun was stumbling across the sky and the shadows of the peaks were spreading from behind them, and there were yet more miles to drag through.

  Like clockwork, of course, a short but thoroughly unpleasant shower of rain came from out of nowhere near dusk, lasting just long enough to mock them: it gave out just as they got their oilskins off the mule. In all the haste one of Alorin’s knives fell off and narrowly missed Poildrin’s foot, while the pair of mink she’d shot earlier in the afternoon for dinner went flopping bonelessly into the dirt. One of them did not stop there; it went plummeting over a cliff, the mage shaking his weary head as he watched it arc down to where some undeserving mountain cat would probably wonder at its good fortune in the valley below.

  “Fuck.” The scowling mouth out of which the word came chopping was as angry as Alorin Kaye ever got, and the anger blew away with the rain. She stooped quickly, gathered up the second luckless mink, and slung it over the mule’s neck, her face back under its usual fluid control. She peered up the path. “Are we going on?” she asked pointedly. The lost mink had flowed out of her life forever. Poildrin wondered how she did that; he tended to dwell on things.

  In Lower Thead, the folk had heard there was a group of woolen merchants traveling about. Their pitiful little tavern, clinging to the side of a cliff, was lively enough as they staggered in with the last of the sunlight tickling the backs of their necks. The tavernkeeper, a wide-limbed fellow called Florin, agreed to take their horses and give them a shack for the incredible price of ten gold pieces, all inclusive. “Mergansers from the Realm or Imperials from the Empire; I’m not picky,” he bustled. He stared evenly back at Poildrin’s glare. “What? It’s a high price, surely, but do you see any other place hereabouts that will give you a better deal?”

  “Granted, but… I mean, ten mergansers?” Housing all of them at the Palace wouldn't have cost more than twelve.

  “Nothing wrong with your hearing, sir, that’s certain,” Florin grinned. “But my stables are snug and dry, and I’ll throw in some croissants with your breakfast. Can’t beat that!” He shrugged, his eyes gleaming. “You’ll find some leaks in the shed, but outside you’ll find all the moss you need. You know, for patching.”

  “Any beds?” Aimee asked hopefully. Florin chuckled and replied to her chest.

  “Just mine, love. You’re welcome there anytime. I’d even discount your rate!” He chuckled again, and Aimee went scarlet.

  “How much of a discount?” Poildrin said at once. Aimee kicked him as he counted ten mergansers into the tavernkeeper’s hand. It was clearly more money than he’d seen all year.

  “My slave boy will see to your horses,” Florin continued, nodding toward a patch of floor in the corner. “Folk mostly sit on the ground here; not a lot of wood for tables. Make yourselves comfortable; I’ll be over in a bit with some meat.”

  They obeyed, and not without some grousing by Aimee. The floor was at least made of sand, and there was enough of a wall to provide something for them all to lean against as they surveyed the room. It was occupied by four or five
locals, all muttering and scratching at their armpits. Florin’s counter, waist-high, was the room’s only furniture, apart from a stool on which he now sat. Alorin frowned. “Not often you see a drinkmonger sitting,” she said quietly, and Poildrin paid sudden and close attention.

  A shadowmage is nothing more than a firemage with some training in understanding and, at times, trying to control the minds of men. All of them made a point of making that look easy, mostly so that commoners would believe they could do more than they really could; as Poildrin knew well, the truth was desperately different. Most of it amounted to paying constant and draining attention to nearly everything that was happening, all the time; this took energy and focus. But Alorin’s words had prodded his brain a bit, and he suddenly concentrated on Florin.

  He sat leaning on the counter, eyeing the room through dark eyes set well back in his fleshy face, now shiny and red but for the bushy orange side-whiskers that ran down his face like lava. His thick lips were curled into a complacent grin, and he took great care not to look at Poildrin and his companions. Florin’s limbs may have been thick, but his mind was not. There was a brain back there, and with a cold feeling in his belly the mage began to think.

  His conclusion took a few seconds. He leaned over to Alorin. “A man needs to relax if he’s going to have a long, busy night ahead.” She flickered a quick glance at him, and then down into her lap as she considered. Firkis watched them both, and even Aimee was aware something was up. Poildrin nodded. “He intends to kill us in our sleep.”

  “Agreed.” The valkyrie showed no surprise.

  Firkis went still. “He knows who we are, then?”

  “Who are we?” the mage replied bleakly. “Mysterious strangers, newly arrived after days of wandering through these mountains? That’s probably enough for him right there.” He shook his head. “Or he just wants our money. Either way, I’m not sure he knows we work for the Princess, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He thought some more, and then nodded. “He’s a friend of that woman.”

  “The one at the waterfall.” Alorin sighed. “I suppose it’s inevitable. None of our jobs ever go smoothly.” The two of them brooded awhile; at length, the tavernkeeper sent a baleful glance their way and turned to shout into the little lean-to kitchen behind him. As the slave boy came out with a platter of food, Florin glanced once, shrewdly, at the group. And then he went back to his slow, ponderous survey of the room. Poildrin leaned his head back.

  “He’s not the only one who’ll have a sleepless night, I’m afraid.”

  Aimee groaned.

  Five

  The weapons lay unpacked on the straw-covered earth floor of the little cowshed where Florin had put them, glistening in the light of Aimee’s little oil lamp as they waited on the spread blanket.

  “So.” Alorin was glancing coolly around the little stone building, considering. “There’s the doorway, and that west window. The back wall is the mountain itself, and I doubt he’ll want to knock down his own east wall just to take us.” She frowned; they were both well aware that Drinn would have been better at this sort of thing. But Drinn, alas, was back at the Tower, no doubt fucking the kitchen wench. “So the doorway it must be. He’ll use the window to shoot arrows or throw torches in.”

  “Wait, what?” Aimee was still cross at the idea she would miss her rest. “Torches?”

  “For the straw,” Alorin explained patiently. She was in no particular rush; it would take Florin time to gather some men, and he wouldn’t come while their lamp was burning anyway. “He’ll expect us to be asleep, so as long as we can pretend we are, we’ll draw at least one or two of them into the room before we strike.”

  “I’ll start,” Poildrin put in. He’d already recalled a good spell, and was going over it again and again to make sure he remembered all the words. “I’ll wait until two are in here or any blades start coming down. Florin will surely be one of the first in here. Then I’ll go.” The spell would be a good one, and it had the advantage of being just a few quick words long; as soon as he started speaking, he knew Florin would strike. “When you hear me start my spell, get up and be ready.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Firkis never liked the prospect of magic; it made him nervous. All in all, Poildrin reflected, that was a healthy attitude.

  “A dark, invisible wind will shoot out of my fingers and blow anything in its path against the wall.” He frowned now, wondering how strong he should cast it. Too much force, and Florin would go straight through the walls. Which would be fine, until the roof collapsed on them all. “Meanwhile, you’re all staying down. Once the spell passes, stand up.”

  “Short weapons only,” Alorin cautioned. “Even a village this small should be able to muster at least seven or eight men. Things will get crowded. Rapidly.” So no axe from Firkis, and Alorin’s crossbow would be less than ideal. She glanced at Aimee, whose eyes were very wide. “Don’t worry, though. These are mountain people, with families nearby. If we smack them hard right away, they won’t stand. You take my bow and be ready to shoot out the window. Firkis and I will do the blade-work while Poildrin recovers.”

  “Not too bloody,” the mage cautioned. “If we kill too many of them, we’ll never leave these mountains.” No, the idea was capture: Aimee had already cut some short lengths of rope for binding hands and feet, and Alorin felt that one or two bound men, plus enough loud threats of torture, ought to do most of the necessary work of driving off the rest. “A hostage will do nicely, especially if it’s a local worthy like Florin.”

  “Yes,” Aimee agreed, “and I don’t want to work too hard either, bandaging a herd of inbred mountain people.” She sniffed. Aimee thought of herself as a woman with standards. She wrinkled her nose. “Good gods. Who farted?”

  Dinner had been underdone. “Sorry,” Firkis muttered.

  “Clear?” Poildrin looked around, then glanced out the window hole at the moon. “Choose your weapons, then, and let’s get this overwith.” The headache was back, though he hadn’t mentioned it to Aimee; in her present mood, she’d probably suggest amputation, and Poildrin did not need the hassle. “Nobody sleeps, but everybody pretends. I wouldn’t expect them to bring a light with them, but I’ve been wrong before.”

  “Never.” Alorin gave her rare smile.

  * * *

  A breeze picked up after the first hour or so, which made things complicated; it whistled faintly between the unmortared walls of the shed, and several times Poildrin had to catch himself on the brink of starting his spell. The old, shaky wooden door shook slightly as the gusts passed, and leaves rattled outside. The inside of the cowshed was chilly, but they kept their blankets rolled outside their trussed packs. They planned to leave quickly, as the locals would undoubtedly not be pleased to continue having them in town, once blood was spilled.

  At length, the moon began to set and Poildrin risked opening his eye. Aimee was truly asleep, her mouth wide, an ungodly snarling noise issuing from her throat. He had a moment of doubt; more than a moment, really. It was always possible he was being stupidly cautious, that Florin was nothing more than a fat tavernkeeper, that what he’d taken for suspicious glances had, in fact, just been the greedy gaze of a man hoping for more gold from travelers who just might have a bit extra.

  It was always like this. Poildrin was expected to have answers, so he duly provided them to the Princess’ other employees. It did not really matter to them whether or not he really knew those answers; they were content to believe that he did, and that put more pressure on the mage than he liked to admit. His answer tonight might have been wrong; worse, it might have made him look foolish.

  Or not.

  The sound of footsteps was only quiet to people not expecting to hear them. They dislodged a stone or two, crunched through a tussock here and there, and in general made quite enough noise for the trained hearing of a jumpy mage. A jumpy valkyrie, as well; he caught Alorin Kaye’s shining eyes in the darkness, brief and reassuring, just before she lidded them. Firkis
’ foot prodded Aimee gently and with absolutely no effect. The wind came back up, keening through the chinks in the walls; a mouse stirred in the thatch above. And Poildrin settled himself more firmly against the rock of the mountain wall behind them, settled his dagger in his lap, and let his mind go slow and dry and empty, as a mage must when he prepares to cast a spell.

  Another rock rattled without, much closer, and the words came. They’d bolted the door, but a sheet of paper would have been stronger than the rotten old wood in the doorway; the bolt would offer no real difficulty for Florin, but he’d resolved to start his spell once he heard the first blow on the timber.

  It didn’t come; instead, an arrow through the window whistled louder than the wind as it smashed itself to bits against the far wall.

  “Dammit!” Poildrin gave Aimee a vicious kick, then reached down to grab the crossbow Alorin had left right beside the sleeping healer’s arm. He pointed it and squeezed the trigger convulsively against the stock, his throat dry as the string sang in his arms and the whole contraption jumped in his hands. The bolt went sailing out toward the little low rind of the moon, and while Aimee was thrashing her way to her knees and groping for a crossbow that wasn’t there, the door came shattering into the shed.

  Did they have a mage out there? was Poildrin’s first idle thought; the door had disintegrated, and he could think of a number of charms that might have done that. But there was none of the usual tingling in his ears he was used to when other mages used their powers, so he wasn’t surprised to hear a thud as the men outside dropped the stout chunk of old timber they’d used as a battering ram.

  He began babbling his spell even before Aimee snatched the crossbow from his hands, cursing in a low voice as she jammed her foot into the stirrup and hauled back on the string, and then a number of things all seemed to happen at once.