The Tiger's Eye (Book 1)

by Robert P. Hansen

  The poleax was sharp and angry. It didn’t like him being on his stomach, either.

  Don’t think.

  Breathe.

  It is important.

  More fingertips kneading the soreness from his tired shoulders.

  He had shoulders? Voltari—

  He tried to scream, but there was no sound.

  The fingertips probed his skull, the bones shifting….

  Damned those ants! What did he ever do to them?

  Breathe.

  6

  Soft breathing, short, shallow gasps. Panting? A dog?

  No. His chest shuddered with each little hiccup.

  “Angus?” A kind voice. Feminine. Gentle, probing, like the fingers. “Try not to move.”

  He frowned. Voltari didn’t have gentle fingers. Delicate ones, certainly; all wizards have delicate fingers. But not gentle. When he probed….

  He shifted his weight, but only enough to learn he was on his back. It hurt, but not the sharp, agonizing torture of the fire-breathing ants. It had the dull ache of a heavy burden recently lifted but not entirely gone.

  “It will be over soon.” Whose voice was that? To the left, five feet away, not far from his head. I know that voice!

  The gentle fingers touched the poleax, sending sharp, unremitting pain through his chest.

  His mouth opened. A scream—soft, distant, little more than a plaintive whimper.

  “Stop moving!”

  Her command must be obeyed. There was power behind that voice….

  The poleax shifted. Bones crunched, snapping against each other like dry bread crumbling to powder.

  Breathe.

  The pain subsided, and his breathing eased.

  He frowned. What?

  “Lay still, Angus,” the familiar voice again. Who was he? The compassionate, remorseful tone was all wrong. That voice should be laughing, dancing.

  “Giorge,” he muttered, and his body settled into place on the soft platform on which he had been laid.

  “Lay still, Angus,” Giorge said, a spark of energy igniting his tone. “The healer will finish soon.”

  “If you know the mantra,” the woman said as she leaned over him. “Use it now.”

  Mantra? Angus wondered. Mantra. Mantra. Mantra. Oh, yes—

  Still the body.

  She rested her palms on his chest as if they had just enjoyed each other’s company. “It will facilitate the repairs.”

  Repairs? What repairs? Why—

  Still the mind.

  There will be time for thinking later.

  Still the body.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  He was more acutely aware of his body now, the minor pain of his broken arm, the stiffness of his neck, the strange newness of the bones of his skull....

  Still the mind.

  She had eaten recently, something sweet—or was it perfume? Giorge was not the only one there; there were others. They breathed heavily, like Hobart, but they weren’t Hobart. Or Ortis. Or Voltari. They were different.

  Still the body.

  Why was his body broken? What had happened to him? He had been in his room, studying….

  Still the mind.

  He didn’t know the strangers. Were they important?

  No.

  Breathing was important.

  Still the body.

  He let himself drift into the trancelike state, and hovered there for a long time before finally falling asleep….

  7

  Breathe.

  No, don’t.

  The stench is horrendous.

  Feces, mold, decay, urine—a range of noxious fumes assaulted him, driving him from his slumber more swiftly than would a cold bucket of water or a ringing slap to his cheek.

  His bed was harsh stone that someone had tried to cushion with the long, round stalks of grass, their brittleness jabbing uncomfortably into his sensitive back.

  He sat up and opened his eyes.

  It was dark. But it was not the darkness of a moonless night in the wilderness; it was the darkness of a cave lit by a dim candle too far away to provide much light.

  There were lots of shadows, and one of them moved.

  “Alive, then?” the shadow said, huddling up against the metal grate keeping them apart.

  I’m in a dungeon! Angus thought, his heart simmering in his chest, his breath tangled up in his throat. Why?!

  “I’m Bug-Eyed Jake,” the shadow said.

  “Where am I?” Angus asked.

  “Hellsbreath’s hellhole,” he easily replied.

  Hellsbreath’s hellhole? No wonder it’s so stifling. We must be under the city, near the forge tubes. “Why am I here?”

  “No idea,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “But it must have been pretty bad, judging by how they’ve treated you so far.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well,” Bug-Eyed Jake said, “they just dumped you in here two days ago and haven’t come back to check on you once.” He paused and said, “Or me, for that matter.”

  “How do you know it’s been two days?” Angus asked, looking around the gloom.

  “Oh, they change the candle once a day,” he said. “If they have that swill they call food, they bring it then. Otherwise, they just leave us here to rot a bit longer. They don’t go so far as to let us die, mind you, but they aren’t exactly kind to criminals like us. It’s better not to get caught.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” Angus denied—and then wondered whether or not it was true. Had he done something that violated the rules Hobart had told him about? Was he a criminal?

  “Ha!” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “I know you, Typhus.”

  “My name is Angus,” Angus absently corrected as he ran through the list of prohibited activities Hobart had recited as they crossed the valley to Hellsbreath. “What did I do?” he muttered, dismissing one after another of the things Hobart had said not to do.

  “Now Typhus,” Bug-Eyed Jake pouted, his voice mild and friendly, “there’s no need to pretend with me. We’ve known each other too long for that.”

  Angus glanced at the shadow, met the huge, pale-white orbs reflecting the distant flickering of the candle. It was difficult to see details of his face; he was covered in so much grime that it concealed most of his appearance, and the shadows distorted the rest. But those bulbous, bug-like eyes….

  “How long have you been down here?” Angus asked, standing up and brushing the grass stalks from his robe. His left hand slowed, and he pinched the fine cloth between his finger and thumb. Why didn’t they take this from me? He began checking the pockets, quickly finding them all to be empty—including the concealed ones. They were thorough, he thought. The garnets are gone.

  “Too long,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “But I don’t mind. The longer I am down here, the longer I keep my other hand.” He held up his right arm and wiggled his fingers in the dim light, as if he were making shadow puppets.

  “Your other hand?” Angus asked.

  Bug-Eyed Jake grinned, a toothy grin that broadcasted his lack of dental hygiene, and lifted his left arm. It ended in a fist-like stub. “They took that last year,” he said. “I think that’s why they’ve been waiting. It’s one thing to take the hand of a thief who has two of them; it’s another to take the second one. But they’ll get around to it eventually, unless….” He shifted his position and peered more closely at Angus but didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Sorry to hear about your troubles,” Angus said, surprised to hear there was genuine concern in his voice. “But you know what they say: A thief who gets caught should find another profession.”

  “Yes,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “You’ve told me that before, Typhus. That day you dragged me out of Tyrag’s tomb.”

  Angus shook his head. “I told you, my name is Angus, not Typhus,” he protested. “And I’ve never been to Tyrag.” Not that I can recall, he amended to himself. “We’ve never met.”

  “Now Typhus,
don’t be like that,” he retorted. “We’ve known each other far too long for that, and you owe me.”

  Angus bristled, reached out for the magic and drew it closer to him. He reached inside himself, sought out the strands that were primed for the spell, merged them with those around himself, and made the simple little knot of the Lamplight spell. It burst into brilliance on his palm, and he lifted it high above his head.

  Bug-Eyed Jake cowered, covering his head in his arms and hurrying to the corner furthest away from Angus. “Put it out! Put it out!” he cried, but Angus ignored the little man. He looked almost like a rat curled in upon itself, but much dirtier.

  Angus rose to his full height—a mere five foot six inches—and stepped up to the metal bars separating the two cells from each other. “I am the wizard Angus,” he said, his voice controlled, tinged with a sinister undertone, “and I will not tolerate your insouciant blathering any longer. Is that understood?”

  Bug-Eyed Jake cringed, peeked over the top of his arm and blinked rapidly. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t know what insouciant means.”

  Angus frowned and hissed, “You are much too free with your tongue. Silence it.”

  “Yes, yes,” Bug-Eyed Jake said. “Just put that light out.”

  “I do not know you,” Angus continued. “We have never met, and you will not speak to me again. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” Bug-Eyed Jake whimpered. “No more talking. Just put that out.”

  “No,” Angus said. “But if you let me be, I will reduce the intensity. I need time to think, and I do not wish to be disturbed by the likes of you.” He turned and moved quickly to recapture the Lamplight spell and reduce its intensity—it was hurting his eyes, as well, but he had prepared himself for it—and then parked it behind his right shoulder. Then he moved back to the wall to sit and think.

  What happened? I was studying Teffles’ book and— No, I was taking a break from it. The shorthand was giving me a headache. I was going to write it out by longhand until—

  The wand. That’s what it was. I was trying to determine what the wand did. I had found the third sigil in Teffles’ spellbook, and I—

  Yes, that was it. The wand’s sigils. Wind. Temperature. Thunder. But they were vague references. Lots of different winds. Which one was it? And the temperature? High or low? Low, wasn’t it? High temperatures had the sphere of flame combined—

  But I couldn’t see the inner workings of the spell. The magic of the outer shell obscured it. I—

  No, I couldn’t have—

  Angus dropped his head in his hands and muttered, “How could I have been so stupid? Whatever possessed me to test the wand in there? It wasn’t a practice room; it didn’t have a protective barrier. There were no safeguards against—”

  Against what?

  What did the wand do? He had only intended to release the first knot so he could see the interior, but—

  “Giorge,” Angus said, rubbing his temples. “That fool—”

  Stop! Don’t dwell on the past, learn from it. Look to the present, the future. The present is bleak; there is nothing I can do about it. But the future….

  Giorge had knocked on his door, but I ignored him. I was too busy to be interrupted. I needed to focus on the wand.

  He knocked a second time, didn’t he? It doesn’t matter. I ignored that, too; only the wand mattered. I was too close to finding out what it did. I had to know.

  The idiot picked the lock. He was going to rob me, even after I had joined Hobart’s banner! I—

  But I didn’t know it was Giorge. I thought it was someone else coming to steal from me. Yes, that was it. Someone was breaking into my room and I—

  I defended myself with the wand. It was stupid. I didn’t even know what the wand did. I still don’t know what it does.

  The door opened. I was already breaking the last knot, the one holding the magic back, the point-and-release knot every wand has.

  Giorge stuck his head around the door and—

  “I almost killed him,” Angus said, shaking his head. “I should have killed him! But I redirected the wand’s spell to the outer wall. Then—”

  He frowned; his memory was fuzzy here. “What did the wand do?” he muttered. “There was the recoil from the spell’s release, and I was thrust back into the wall.” He shuddered, overwhelmed by the intense image of giant fire ants swarming over his body.

  Bones broke, he thought. A lot of them. I lost consciousness, but just before then, what did I see? What did the wand do?

  He thought for a long time, but it was of no use. He couldn’t remember what happened because there was nothing to remember. He had lost consciousness when he struck the wall. Then—

  Did I almost die?

  8

  Two days passed. He was fed a disturbing swill twice, its foul taste lingering for hours afterward. But it was edible if he pinched his nose, and at least he didn’t get sick from it. Bug-Eyed Jake made no attempt to talk to him, and no matter how hard he tried to remember what the wand had done, the knowledge just wasn’t there. It was like he had amnesia all over again, but this time it was only for that moment, and of all the moments he needed to remember, that was the one that mattered most.

  The guards only laughed when he asked what the charges were. Then they tormented Bug-Eyed Jake by telling him how they looked forward to cutting off his other hand. “Maybe we’ll take a foot, instead?” one of them said. “He might have prehensile toes.”

  That led to an extensive explanation of what prehensile meant before Bug-Eyed Jake adamantly denied having the ability to wrap his toes around coin purses or to pick locks. Then he amended his statement by adding, “At least, not good enough to avoid getting caught.”

  Then, just when he was expecting another bowl of the nearly inedible swill, Ortis came to visit.

  “Ortis!” Angus cried, jumping up and hurrying to the bars when he saw his companion. Then he noted the guard beside him and tried to corral his excitement.

  Ortis turned and slipped the guard a coin and asked, “A bit of privacy, please?”

  The guard nodded. “When you are ready, pound on the door.”

  “What am I charged with, Ortis?” Angus demanded as the guard walked away. “Why am I being held here?”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t let you die,” Ortis said. “If they had known who did it sooner, they would have.”

  “But,” Angus said. “What did I do? What am I charged with?”

  Ortis frowned and scratched his pale white cheek as the orange irises of his eyes narrowed. “Nothing, yet,” he said. “They haven’t decided which laws you actually broke.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Angus,” Ortis said, his tone puzzled, wavering. “Whatever possessed you to use that wand in Hedreth’s? Hobart told you that magic was strictly regulated here.”

  Angus nodded. Hobart had said it was regulated, but, “Hobart didn’t say it was prohibited,” he said.

  Ortis shook his head. “The prohibition was implied,” he said. “Hobart said not to use destructive magic in Hellsbreath, and that is exactly what you did.” He sniffed and scrunched up his nose. “And now you’re here, in this pungent little cell, paying the price.”

  “For how long?” Angus asked.

  “The damage was considerable, Angus. We’re trying to negotiate a fine instead of a long-term stay in one of these cozy little compartments.”

  “No,” Angus said, shaking his head. “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Three days,” Ortis said. “If it weren’t for Giorge’s quick actions, you would be dead now. He staunched the bleeding long enough for the healer to get there.”

  Angus frowned. “I suppose he thinks I owe him my thanks,” he grumbled. “Well, I don’t,” he said, his voice harsh and unforgiving. “If he hadn’t tried to break into my room, I would not be here at all. He’s the reason I’m in here.”

  “He did considerably more for you than you realize, Angus,” Ort
is objected. “But we will discuss that later, after we leave Hellsbreath.”

  “You sound confident that you’ll be able to get me out of here,” Angus said. “Why?”

  Ortis shrugged. “Hobart and Hedreth are still on friendly terms, despite what you did. Once you explain the situation to him and to the magistrate, we believe we can find a reasonable resolution. It will also be a costly one. You did a lot of damage.”

  “What kind?” Angus asked, his voice excited. “How much? What did the wand do? Can you describe it to me? I—”

  “Later,” Ortis cut him off. “I can’t stay much longer; I only gave the guard a silver. He’ll remember his duty soon. Besides, they confiscated the wand. We’re negotiating with them to have it returned to you when we leave, but don’t expect it.”

  “More negotiation,” Angus grumbled. “More cost. At this rate, I’ll be indebted to you for a very long time.”

  Ortis leaned in and lowered his voice. “No you won’t,” he whispered. “For good or ill, you are now part of our banner, and we take care of our own. Besides,” he glanced at the adjacent cell and lowered his voice even further. “Giorge was able to negotiate a very lucrative deal for those coins of yours, so much so that he is trying to convince us to go north to get the one you spent. But that’s not our concern at the moment. Hedreth will be pacified, I assure you, but the magistrate is another matter. You will have to pay for the repairs to the city wall.”

  “The city wall?” Angus repeated. “How much damage did I do?”

  “You can see for yourself when we leave,” Ortis said. “For now, let’s just say that Hellsbreath will remember you. The magistrate, too; he is inclined to ban you from Hellsbreath for life, even if you have a tolerable explanation. Of course, since you’re part of our banner, we may have to join you in that exile. Hobart says it is part of the magistrate’s negotiation strategy.”

  “What else did they confiscate?” Angus asked, his voice sharply tinged by a sudden, deep, upwelling of fear.

  “Very little, actually,” Ortis said. “The garnet and coins from your robe. Don’t expect to get them back. The fine will easily surpass their value.”

  “What about my scrolls?” Angus demanded. “Teffles’ book?”