The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)

by Robert P. Hansen

  “I see,” Angus frowned. “Well, I can pursue the matter further tomorrow. Night is approaching, and the day has been long. Until then?”

  Vindray nodded. “If I am not on duty, feel free to send for me when you arrive. I would be pleased to show you around the school.”

  Angus nodded. “Good night, Vindray,” he said.

  “Good night, Master Angus.”

  Hobart barely hesitated before turning and joining Angus as he walked briskly away from the gate.

  “Well,” Angus muttered. “They know I’m here, now. I wonder what they’ll do about it.”

  “Probably sell you the horse,” Hobart said.

  Angus chuckled. “If my discussions go well tomorrow,” he said, “I will likely be able to tell you if I will be joining your banner or not.”

  “Good,” Hobart said, taking long, swift strides.

  Angus hurried to keep pace with him, thinking, I wonder what I will find in the history books….

  9

  Angus set yet another book aside and turned to the next one Embril had brought to him. She was a delightfully helpful librarian, one with a great deal of knowledge, energy, and optimism. Her eyes were a bit odd, though; one was brown and the other blue, and it gave her face an almost sinister appearance. But the sinister quality disappeared entirely when she smiled and little flecks of happiness danced across their surface and they almost merged to form a single blue-tinted brown shade he couldn’t identify. At least, that’s what he told himself was happening, even though he knew it was only his imagination playing with his sentiments. Then again, her long, straight, red hair, shapely figure beneath the dark green robe, and lilting little laugh made him feel much younger than he was—or was he really that young? Perhaps if he stayed in Hellsbreath….

  The next tome was an old one, like all the others, and he opened it carefully. He set it upright on its spine and peeled it apart in the middle, easing the front and back covers to the table. It crackled as if the glue in the spine was struggling against a great force, and then it gave way and settled into a strained silence. The pages were discolored, as if it had been dropped in water at some point, but the ink remained legible, though faded. He leafed to the front of the book and began reading.

  I am Fyngar, chronicler of the Kingdom of Urm. I have been Urm’s chronicler since before the Great Expansion, the records of which may be found in the official chronicle, The Glory of Urm. That text is a lie. It depicts those tragic events in the manner most favorable to King Urm and omits that which would tarnish his name. Much was left out. This tome, which will remain concealed among the wizards until such time as its contents may be received without malice, tells the truth of that dreadful time and records the depths of Urm’s avarice and maleficence.

  Angus read quickly through the disparaging remarks about King Urm and his sadistic pleasures until Fyngar’s disgust dwindled and the facts began to appear.

  It was late summer, not long before the harvest would begin, that King Urm gathered together his army. It was a small army, scarcely more than one thousand men, and he led them into the lands of the plains folk. The plains folk were a kind and generous people who had offered much guidance to the peoples of Urm when they arrived. Land, food, knowledge—all were freely given by the plains folk, and Urm greedily accepted them. But it was not enough. Urm wanted more.

  The army left the walls of Urmag and entered the vast expanse of grain, seeking out the plains folk wherever they might be. It was days before the harvest, and the plains folk were living quietly in their villages, each one but a handful of families knitted together by kinship. They were a peaceful, generous people who knew nothing about war. When Urm ordered his men to kill them, there was nothing they could do but die. He gave that order again and again and again, killing all the plains folk within fifty miles of Urmag. Beyond that limit, he set fire to the grain.

  The fire was a hideous conflagration expanding outward from the grain he had captured and secured. It spread through the plains folk, leaving behind decimated village after decimated village, charred body after charred body. They tried to flee, but the fire was too fast. Only a handful survived by the largest rivers. But not for long. Most starved within days. The ones who didn’t die learned how to catch and eat fish, a stark contrast to their strictly vegetarian diet. The fires did not stop until they reached the swamps to the north, the mountains to the west and south.

  In a single, vicious stroke, the empire of plains folk was destroyed, and Urm moved into the vacancy, setting up garrisons at strategic points and populating the land between with farming villages. There was nothing the plains folk could do to prevent it. The few survivors had fled and were not heard from again.

  Angus skimmed through several paragraphs before backtracking to reread a section more closely.

  The remnants of the plains folk have been encountered only rarely since the destruction of their empire. Many have already forgotten them. But I have not. They were a beautiful people, a kind people. In times of harvest, they were plentiful; in times of deep winter, their numbers dwindled. I studied them before their demise, and was one of the few who were given the privilege of observing their rituals. One in particular was of great interest and beauty: The Replication Ceremony.

  Two years prior to the Great Expansion, King Urm gave me leave to investigate their cultural practices. I lived with them from one harvest to the next. The Replication Ceremony happened shortly after the beginning of the second harvest, and my friend Utin invited me to observe it. The plains folk gathered around a pile of grain that was taller than they were and began eating. I have never seen anyone eat as much as they did over the next few hours, and when they finished, they joined hands and sat down. As the minutes went by, a thin cocoon-like mesh formed around them, connecting them together. In time, the silk-like threads of the mesh began to pulse and throb, and small buds began to grow from them. As these buds grew, they began to take on the size and shape of the adult plains folk. Their general form was humanlike, but with a short, curled tail and catlike paws. Once the buds were fully grown, the cocoon receded and was absorbed back into the bodies of the originators. It took hours for the ceremony to be completed, and at the end, the new members of the village opened their eyes and began moving around as if they had lived their entire lives in the village. Utin smiled at me, his rudimentary fangs and owl-like eyes full of joy, and introduced me to his son—born but a few moments before. He knew my face and my name….

  Angus frowned. Ortis didn’t have fangs. Did he have a tail? The eyes were cat-like, not owl-like. Still…. He kept reading until he was satisfied there was little else Fyngar had to offer in the short treatise—other than pointing out the hideous shortcomings of King Urm’s reaction upon hearing about the ritual. Urm’s fear drove him down that path to genocide, and once it was begun, there was little Fyngar could do to stop him. But Fyngar didn’t forget, nor did he deny his role in the whole affair. The book was a confessional, and he seemed to leave nothing of relevance out of it, whether it was about himself or King Urm. He did not provide nearly enough information on the plains folk for Angus to draw upon, but it was more than the other texts had had.

  He spent two days searching through maps and texts on semiotics, religion, arcane magic, history—anything that might give him information about the symbol on his map. But he found nothing and finally returned to Hedreth’s to study Teffles’ spells and wand. If he had had more time, he would have spent weeks researching the map and the plains folk, but he didn’t.

  He decided not to pursue employment in Hellsbreath, at least for the time being. Instead, he would travel with the Banner of the Wounded Hand for two years, and when those two years were over, he would reevaluate his options. When he told them of his decision, they were quite pleased, and then the conversation turned to preparations for their expedition. What would they need? When would they leave? What would they do if they found something? If they didn’t? Then Angus turned to Teffles’ spells.

>   After two more days, he was beginning to think in the shorthand Teffles had used, but only in bits and pieces here and there. After the first few spells, the sky magic grew more complicated, and there were far too many gaps in them for him to understand them as well as he wanted. Teffles had only scribed the high points, those that he needed to have in order to refresh his memory and prime himself, not the detailed instructions a novice of sky magic would need to have in order to understand them. Reading through them was like reading through a new scroll from Voltari; some parts he grasped quite well, but others were a mystery to him until he finally risked casting the spell. If only Voltari had taught him more than just the rudiments of sky magic….

  The wand was another matter entirely. Thanks to Teffles’ early explanations in his book, Angus had learned what the sigils on the wand meant. But he wasn’t sure what they would do when combined. The first sigil was for the portion of sky magic related to wind. It was a basic sigil, one that could be modified in several ways, depending upon the kind of wind that was desired. The basic knot elicited a slight, straight, steady breeze, but if it was squeezed together it became more potent. A twist of the knot made the wind rotate. The sigil on the wand was pinched tightly together and twisted. Would it create a powerful rotating wind? Perhaps even a cyclonic one? If it were the only sigil on the wand, then maybe, but there were two others. The three sigils appeared as a recurring pattern, and all three had to be manipulated in order for the wand to be activated. Each one would release its individual part of the spell, but the wand’s power would only be released after all three had been triggered. So, only part of the spell was a cyclonic disruption of some sort, but the other two parts would complement, constrain, and alter that disruption.

  The second sigil was related to temperature. It was another simple, basic knot, and if it was expanded it indicated high temperatures and when it was scrunched up it was low ones. The higher temperatures also relied upon elements of flame magic—an intermingling of the threads—while the low temperatures drew upon ice magic. It was the most ambiguous portion of the spell, since it did little to explain how the temperature would affect it. Temperature was a significant part of the spell, but he had no idea what that part was. When he first looked at the third sigil, he didn’t recognize it, even after studying the introductory sections of Teffles’ book. It was only later, when he was studying Teffles’ more complex spells that it had become apparent: thunder. Although he understood that much, he couldn’t determine what role it would play in the spell itself. Thunder, lightning, storms—these were not simplistic spells, and it was unclear whether Teffles had mastered them or not. Regardless, Angus hadn’t mastered them, and he was at a complete loss as to how the three parts of the spell would be combined together or how their individual properties would manifest.

  “So,” Angus muttered. “A spell that involves high cyclonic winds whose temperature may vary considerably, and it involves thunder. But what is thunder? A loud sound created by the lightning when it strikes. Does that mean you throw lightning bolts?” Angus shook his head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Lightning has its own symbol and the crafter of the wand would have known that. A thunderstorm? Unlikely. What good would a thunderstorm do in the midst of battle when a wand was needed? Wands were almost always made for quick access to complex, powerful spells, ones the wizard wouldn’t have time to prime himself for on short notice. A thunderstorm would be too disruptive, not only to the enemy but also to the wizard and his allies. A tornado, though, if controlled….”

  There was a quiet knock on his door, but he ignored it.

  “No, not a tornado,” he thought. “It wouldn’t need the other two components. Tornadoes are simply strong winds rotating in a tight circle. The temperature could relate to the tornado, but what role would the thunder have?”

  The knock was a bit louder, a bit more insistent, but he continued to ignore it. He wasn’t expecting any visitors and had given Hedreth and his new colleagues explicit instructions not to intrude upon his time.

  Angus focused once more on the magic of the wand, studying its intricate framework. The surface was the wind; that much was clear enough. Almost all of the strands were very pale, almost translucent shades of blue, and the few that weren’t only showed flickering shades of white and slightly darker blue. But he still couldn’t penetrate through the crust to see what was beneath them; it was too tightly woven. He suspected it would only be more sky magic, but of what sort?

  The temperature was almost certainly low rather than high. He was particularly attuned to the sphere of flame, and if it were being used, he was confident he would be able to sense it. But he couldn’t be certain, and if it did lower the temperature, he didn’t know how much. Thunder would also draw upon sky magic….

  His visitor tried the door handle, shaking it softly.

  “Perhaps if I release this first knot?” he muttered. “It should not activate the spell; the wand will only activate when all three knots have been released. Wouldn’t it loosen the outer layer of magic enough for me to see through it? That would make it possible to unravel its complexity.” He frowned, toying with the wand, flicking it around….

  There was a slight scraping in the lock, but it wasn’t from a key. Someone was trying to pick it, to get into his room.

  Angus didn’t look up. “Should I test this,” he wondered, a half-smile easing into place as he held the wand up in front of his eyes, “on the intruder?” He tilted his head, listening to the subtle movements of the man picking the lock. He turned slightly, placing the door in the middle of his line of sight. He held the wand out before him and prepared to implement the quick series of movements that would untie the knots and release the spell.

  The pins in the lock turned….

  “Should I give a warning?” Angus muttered. “Or just trigger the wand when the door opens?”

  The handle turned….

  “Would the intruder give warning?” Angus purred, gesturing for the release of the first knot. The first layer expanded, and he noted there was no flame, only ice and something else he didn’t immediately recognize.

  The door began to open….

  The second knot was a slow, looping one, and by the time he finished with it, the wand was pulsing, and the strands within it were vibrating madly, their brightness almost overwhelming him. He had already begun the third knot—a swift, sharp, snapping motion that ended with him pointing at the target—when Giorge stuck his head around the edge of the door and said, “Angus?”

  Angus held his arm high for a long moment—there was no way to abort the spell! He had to choose a target!

  “I need to talk—”

  Angus brought the wand down sharply, twisting uncomfortably in his seat as he did so. The tip of the wand passed over Giorge’s head and shoulder and continued….

  “Wait!” Giorge cried.

  Angus maintained the motion until his arm could go no further, and the tip of the wand settled on the adjacent wall. A surge of power raged free from the wand, shot outward….

  Giorge dropped to the floor and rolled backward.

  Angus’s eyes widened as he was lifted from his chair and flung backward, his screech barely beginning as he crashed violently into the wall….

  The Banner of the Wounded Hand

  1

  Breathe.

  It was important.

  Why was it important?

  It doesn’t matter.

  Just breathe.

  Think later.

  2

  Pain.

  A lot of pain.

  The back of his head consumed his attention. Something was eating it.

  No, it was under siege from the relentless pelting of tiny catapults lofting barrels full of flaming oil.

  An army of ants crawled along his back, their feet fitted with tiny iron spikes, driving them into his spine.

  Why were the ants attacking him?

  Breathe. Don’t think.

  Where were his shoul
ders?

  Had the ants eaten them?

  Was the war over?

  Did he win?

  Breathe.

  3

  Voltari must be angry.

  4

  He was breathing.

  It was difficult; his chest was impaled on the sentinel’s poleax.

  It was a big poleax.

  The hole hurt.

  But he could breathe.

  Barely.

  Why did he go outside?

  He never went outside.

  Voltari wouldn’t let him go outside alone.

  Breathe.

  Sharp, stabbing pain.

  He should be crying, why wasn’t he?

  He shrugged, but nothing happened. His shoulders….

  Ants.

  No, that couldn’t be it. It had to be something else.

  Hungry ants?

  Breathe.

  Why am I thinking about breathing? It’s boring.

  It is important. Stop breathing, and—

  Death.

  Voltari knows death magic.

  Is he angry at me?

  He wanted desperately to shrug, but he couldn’t. Voltari had taken his shoulders and given them away.

  Again.

  Long, slow, exhale.

  It was easier to breathe lightly. The poleax didn’t move. Much.

  No, not the poleax. Too small.

  He frowned.

  It turned into a wince as the skin of his cheeks tightened and pulled against the back of his head.

  Fire ants with catapults. What did he do to them? Why were they so angry? He was always kind to ants; he never, ever, held the glass over them to burn them. Why had they burned him?

  No, not ants. Something else. Something—

  BREATHE.

  It was important….

  5

  Fingertips.

  They were gentle, probing.

  He was lying on his stomach.

  He didn’t like lying on his stomach; he always slept on his back.