The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)

by Robert P. Hansen

  The thief had his left arm over his eyes and thrust a knife out with his right hand, slashing back and forth in wide defensive arcs as he quickly backed up.

  Angus slid to his right, watching the rhythmic slashing of the knife. He waited until it was the furthest away from him, and then leapt toward the thief, rising sharply as his momentum propelled him forward. As he passed the thief, he attached the Lamplight to the thief’s left temple, just above the eyes.

  The thief turned toward him, the knife jabbing out—

  Angus dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the wild flailing.

  The thief backed into the wall, grabbing at his eyes and waving his knife.

  “I suggest,” Angus said from where he squatted near a corner, “you drop that knife. Unless you want the blindness to become permanent?”

  When he heard Angus’s voice, the thief turned and the wild slashes melted into half-offensive, probing ones. He remained that way for several seconds before finally dropping the knife.

  “Stand with your legs and arms spread wide against the wall,” Angus said. He brought the magical energy into focus and prepared to grab a deep, brick-red strand—a powerful one with a great deal of flame held within it.

  The thief complied slowly, keeping his eyes crammed shut and his fists clenched. He was very young, with only the barest whisper of a black moustache tickling his upper lip and a few hairs dabbled on his chin. His hair was short, little more than half-inch-long black stubble barely visible against the black lining of his light gray cloak and the soft brown of his smooth skin. He was scrawny—a fine quality for a thief—thin and gangly, well-muscled, wiry. Along with the reversible cloak, he had on supple light brown leather garments—tunic, trousers, boots, belt—that no doubt twisted and bent with him when he was contorting his body into different positions. There were several small pouches hanging from the interior of his cloak, probably containing picks, wires, string—anything that might come in handy while he was practicing his trade.

  Angus stood up and took a step forward. “If you resist,” he said, approaching the thief with caution, “I will increase the intensity of the spell.” He half-smiled at the half-truth, and then finished, his voice soft, unforgiving. “It will get much warmer, and the blindness will become permanent—If you survive.”

  “Please don’t,” the thief said, his voice a low, steady tenor. “I won’t resist.”

  “What shall I call you?” Angus asked from a few feet in front of him. “Your real name,” he added, “not an alias.”

  The thief frowned for a long moment, and then said, “Giorge.”

  “Well, Giorge,” he said. “I am going to search you. Don’t worry,” he added, smiling. “I’m not going to take anything.” He paused and said, meaningfully, “I am not a thief.”

  Angus did a thorough job of checking Giorge for hidden weapons, mentally inventorying the thief’s gear without removing any of it. When he was satisfied he didn’t have anything to worry about, he walked over to the window. A rope was dangling from the roof, and he snapped it sharply, sending ripples upward until the grapple broke free. He pulled the rope and grapple into his room, closed the window, and latched the shutters. When he was finished, he returned to the thief, leaned in close to his ear, and purred, “Are you alone?”

  The thief gulped and nodded.

  “Good,” Angus said, detaching the Lamplight spell from Giorge’s forehead and guiding it to the center of the room. He expanded it, reducing its intensity so that it cast a soft glow around the room, and left it hovering there. “Your eyes,” he told Giorge, “will begin to recover in about an hour, but you will have difficulty seeing for the next few days.”

  The thief didn’t respond or move.

  “You have friends here,” Angus continued. “I saw them when I arrived.”

  Still no response.

  “I assume they know you are here,” Angus continued. When Giorge said nothing, he asked, “Do you have a room in this inn?”

  The thief hesitated, decided not to respond.

  “Now, now, Giorge. I could always reattach the Lamplight spell. It is of little consequence to me one way or the other.”

  “Yes,” Giorge said. “I have a room.”

  “Good,” Angus said. “Then you can find your way back to it.”

  Angus picked up the thief’s knife—a short, thin blade more suitable for puncture wounds than slashing ones—and walked over to the door. He listened carefully for a few moments before lifting the latch and taking a quick look outside. No one was lurking in the hall so he opened the door all the way and moved back to the center of the room.

  “Lower your arms and take three steps forward,” he told the thief, “then turn left.” When the thief had done so, Angus moved in behind him and lowered his voice. “Spread the word,” he said. “I am to be left alone. If not,” he moved the Lamplight nearer to the thief’s eyes and squeezed it until it was an intense, red marble that could be felt and seen through his closed eyelids. The thief winced and pressed his head back against Angus’s shoulder and chin. Angus wrapped his hand around the Lamplight, its glow seeping through his flesh to outline the bones of his fingers. He gave the thief a little shove, and Giorge lost his balance, plunging forward until he struck the wall of the hallway across from the door. Angus walked calmly forward, tossed the knife at the thief’s feet, and quietly closed and latched the door.

  He expanded the Lamplight spell until it cast a comfortable amount of light and guided it back to the mattress. He lay down, the warm Lamplight near his feet, and went to sleep, leaving only a small part of his mind alert to potential dangers. It was only when he reached that curious state when wakefulness and dreamland merge together that a tiny part of his mind began to wonder. Why did I come to Fenbrooke’s Inn? When did I learn of it? Why was it so easy to identify the thieves? And the guardsmen? They almost seemed to know me? Have I been to Wyrmwood before? When? Why?

  Before he could answer any of the questions, the dream began.

  He was soaring high above rolling hills, his wings two sails whipping madly about in the wind, his claws cradled around two tasty little morsels.

  He looked down at the half-familiar, almost identical slumped forms hanging from his gigantic, falcon-shaped claws.

  He licked his lips as he studied them, wondering which one he would devour first….

  11

  Some time before dawn, Angus left Fenbrooke’s Inn and headed for the south road. At the gate to the second wall, the guard made no effort to prevent him from leaving, and there was no line waiting to come in. Angus stepped through the gate and paused next to the guard. He turned and said, “Good morning.” In the dim light of the lamps, he noted the guard’s droopy eyes, his lethargic posture, and the rumpled hair. Two other guards leaned against the wall not far away.

  The guard yawned, nodded, and waved him on.

  Angus lingered and asked, “Would you happen to know how far it is to Hellsbreath?”

  The guard sighed, stretched, shook himself a bit, and said, “Ten days by foot, if you don’t take any shortcuts.”

  “Shortcuts?”

  The guard scowled, yawned again, and asked, “First time south?”

  Angus nodded.

  He sighed. “Well, the road’s built for caravans.”

  “Yes?” Angus asked, wondering what he meant.

  “It’s nice and wide and hugs the valleys and loops around the hills. It makes it easier for the pack animals than going up over the hills. Carts, too. But it makes for a lot longer trip. If you’re in a hurry, you can climb over the hills, instead of following the road around them.”

  “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

  The guard shrugged. “The patrols don’t go there,” he said. “They keep pretty much to the road. But a lot of people do it. There are tracks.”

  “How much time do the shortcuts save?”

  The guard sighed, “Maybe a couple of days,” he said. “If you get there.”

&nb
sp; “How many don’t get there?”

  The guard shrugged. “No way to tell,” he said. “The Tween eats ’em up.”

  “The Tween?” Angus asked, a bit alarmed.

  “Look,” the guard grumbled. “I’m going off shift in a few minutes. Can’t you wait and pester Dillard?”

  Angus half-smiled. “Well,” Angus began. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of The Tween.”

  The guard shrugged. “Stick to the road, then. It’s safer. There’s places to camp. There’s patrols. And the things in The Tween stay away from it.”

  “The Tween is a place, then? Not a thing?”

  The guard sighed and nodded.

  “Can you show me where it is on my map?” Angus asked.

  “No,” the guard snapped, turning away and hurriedly gesturing to the other two guards. “Snap to it!” he said. “Dillard’s coming.”

  The two guards moved quickly, one to either side of the gate, and stood straight, their hands on the hilts of their short swords.

  “Shift change,” the guard said to Angus. “On your way now.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” the guard ordered. “Day shift doesn’t have time to chatter.” He paused a moment, then added, “Dillard is not known for his patience.”

  Angus lingered for a long moment before continuing south. As he went through the half-dark streets of the worker’s ring of the town, he wondered why Voltari had left The Tween off his map. It sounded dangerous, and he didn’t think Voltari would have put him in danger without reason. But there was the road, and he could stick to it—at least long enough to find out about The Tween from fellow travelers….

  12

  Two days later, the road turned sharply southwest and headed straight for the heart of the belching volcanoes. He was still in the dark about The Tween. He had met plenty of travelers on their way to Wyrmwood, but they had simply greeted him and hurried on. The few who came up from behind him were on horses, and they passed him without pausing longer than to acknowledge his presence—if that.

  He saw the shortcuts—hard-packed paths that zig-zagged up the hillsides—and thought about taking them, but he wasn’t in a hurry. No sense taking risks. But they were tempting, narrow gaps carved between the thickets, through the grass, and around the occasional rocky outcropping. Most were steep but passable, judging by how much traffic they had had over the years, and he wondered what the danger could be. Whatever it was, a lot of travelers were willing to take it—at least near Wyrmwood. He’d have to wait to see what happened when he got further away from the thriving town.

  The road was wide; it could easily allow ten horses to stand abreast in most places. It wound around the hills and kept close to the valley floor, where the slope was slight, making for easy walking. The cobblestones alerted him to travelers on horseback; the clatter of horseshoes hammering against them rang out into the valleys as they passed. At regular intervals, the underbrush and trees next to a stream had been cleared away, and high poles stuck up from the ground like faceless totems. The caravan camp sites the guard had mentioned, by the look of them; there were places to tie up hundreds of horses and ample water. But what were the poles for? Fifty feet high with notches in them for easy climbing. He climbed one, both out of curiosity and to look at the terrain, and there was a large ring and pulley at the top. By the time he was on the ground again, he still didn’t know the answer; it was just one more question to ask, once he found a traveler willing to talk with him.

  There were bridges over everything—stream, river, ravine, it didn’t matter; there was a bridge. The base, pillars, and span were carved from polished gray-black granite, but the bed of the bridge continued to alternate between gray-green and reddish-brown cobblestones. All of them were touched by earth magic, the strands knotted gracefully around them, holding the stone of the bridge firmly together. He spent half an afternoon studying one of them, walking over it, going under it, looking at how the knots were connected, how they worked together to reinforce the structure of the bridge, and how the threads were held in place against their will. But all he saw was the surface of the bridge, and it was clear to him that the magic had been knitted together while the bridge had been built, woven in-between and around the slabs of granite, with the threads locked in place inside the bridge. He tried to focus on the individual layers of the ridiculously complex spell, but it was too dizzying and he finally had to give up. He rested for several minutes afterward, and then continued on.

  Near the end of the second day, the terrain changed rapidly from low, rolling, thicket-encrusted hills to steep, rocky foothills riddled with outcroppings and jagged, bare rocks jutting out. There were still shortcuts, but they were quite steep and clearly used much less frequently than the ones near Wyrmwood; it would take a sure foot to climb them, and many of the town-dwellers would pass on them. Perhaps that was the risk? Treacherous footing? In places, the road was carved into the rock of the hillside to widen it, and near one of these places, a faint, barely noticeable, rhythmic echo crept around it. It wasn’t the steady, methodical, clattering rhythm of a horse’s hooves; the gap between the sounds was different. A loud clank quickly followed by a muffled clank, and then a noticeable pause before it was repeated. Another pause followed, and it happened again.

  What is that? Angus wondered, frowning. It sounds metallic. He slowed his pace and moved as far as he dared to the edge of the road, near the now-steepening drop to the valley floor. The sounds grew louder as he approached—definitely metal striking metal—and he brought the magical energy around him nearer to the surface of his consciousness. It was heavy-laden with earth magic, but there were still plenty of strands of flame available.

  He edged around the corner and the sounds grew louder. They were now accompanied by occasional muffled voices, and then he saw why: Rockfall. A massive granite boulder had tumbled down the hill and come to a rest in the middle of the road. A group of workmen were chipping away at it with chisels and mallets. As he neared, he noticed a growing pile of manageable stone slabs stacked next to the dwindling boulder. Each slab looked to be about the same size and color as the cobblestones: two foot gray-green squares one foot deep.

  Angus approached the construction crew cautiously but not with fear; they were unlikely to be a threat. Still….

  Most of the workmen ignored him and kept chipping away at the stone. They seemed to be grouped in three, one holding the chisel and turning it, and the other two alternating hitting it with a mallet. The granite was hard, resistant, and tiny puffs of rock dust and rock chips fluttered up with each new strike a mallet made. When the man orchestrating the activity saw Angus, he stared for a few seconds and then stepped onto the scaffold that had been assembled next to the stone. He bounced down quickly and jogged up to Angus.

  “Greetings, Fair Wizard,” he said, as if it were Angus’s name. “A fine evening will soon be upon us, eh?”

  “Indeed,” Angus said, watching the workmen. “A most pleasant one.”

  The man fell in at a deferential distance beside Angus and absently brushed stone dust from his clothes. He walked with him for a few paces before asking, “Have you a place to stay the night?”

  “I had thought to make the next village,” Angus said, raising his voice a bit to combat the clatter. “Or inn. They seem to be spaced most reasonably on this road.”

  “Yes, yes,” the man agreed. “Near Wyrmwood, but not here.” He hesitated, leaned in conspiratorially, glanced around, and said, “We’re too close to The Tween.”

  The Tween. What is it? Why does it worry him so? “A caravan stop, then,” Angus said, slowing to a stop near the boulder and watching the men working. There were ten of them, three groups cutting the stone and a boy moving among them with a large jug of water. He occasionally splashed a little water on the groove being chiseled or poured some in a workman’s mouth.

  “There’s them,” the man agreed, stopping. “But no tents up yet.” He gestured at a large tent anchored to the cobbl
estones and said, “That’s the last shelter you’ll find until a day from Hellsbreath.”

  “What is this Tween I’ve been hearing about?” Angus asked.

  “Ah,” the man said, shaking his head. “It’s a bad place. King Tyr claims it for his kingdom but doesn’t patrol it. The mountain dwarves repel any attempt he makes to settle it. They don’t like encroachment in their territory, and they only barely tolerate the road. They wouldn’t even do that if they didn’t trade with Tyr. That and Hellsbreath is too strongly defended to get rid of Tyr’s influence altogether without open war, and they don’t want that any more than King Tyr does. Still, every now and then they remind us they are there.” He gestured at the rock.

  “You think they did that?” Angus asked, looking at him for the first time. The man’s eyes were shrewd little hazel orbs that concealed a keen mind. His skin was tanned and wind-burned; and his hair was a tangled mass of oily, dark brown curls lined with streaks of gray. On top of all of it was a light sprinkling of granite dust.

  The man shrugged, “Not this one,” he said, smiling. He only had teeth on the left side, and his smile looked like a mountain dwarf had carved a cave into his mouth. “There’s no sign of it being undercut, and them dwarves tend to keep deeper in The Tween. Wyrmwood sends patrols this far south—and a few hills further— and Hellsbreath patrols the rest of the road.”

  “I see,” Angus said, a bit cowed by the man’s size. He was half a foot taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds, all muscle. He turned back to the road and started walking again.

  The man fell in stride beside him again, and they walked in silence until they were almost past the tent. “If I might make a request, Fair Wizard?” the man finally said.

  Angus nodded curtly without turning or slowing.

  “Well,” the man hedged. “I would be most grateful if you joined us for the evening meal and, if it be to your liking, stay the night.”