“No sense worrying about it now,” Hobart said. “We’re past it, and we might as well find a campsite. We can figure out what to do about it on our way back.”
“If we get that far,” Angus muttered, reluctantly turning away from the ledge.
“Angus,” Giorge said, as they continued along the remnants of the road. “When I get another net, you’re going to have to show me how to throw it so that it stays upright like that.”
Angus half-smiled. “I would have to teach you magic, first,” he said. “How many years do you have?”
Angst
1
“We need a strategy,” Hobart said after they had made camp near a small, frigid stream. “You saw those fires. That means there’s something up here that is smart enough to make them. It won’t be human.”
“It could be,” Ortis suggested. “There are quite a few people who have gone missing. They may have decided to live up here.”
“Why?” Giorge asked. “It can’t be easy to survive in these mountains without trade.”
“This plateau has a lot of plants and animals,” Ortis said. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it could support a fairly large population.”
“Population of what, though?” Hobart countered. “We know of several races who have fire, and I’m sure there are others we don’t know about. It won’t be dwarves; they keep below ground. Elves? They’re in the forests of the Western Kingdoms and far south of these mountains. I can’t see it being them either; they’re too fond of trees.”
“No need to go through the list,” Giorge said. “We know that, whoever they are, they aren’t going to be friendly. If they were, there wouldn’t be so many people disappearing.”
“That may be,” Hobart said. “But what about the dwarves? What would they tolerate in their part of The Tween? After all, they think this whole mountain range is theirs, don’t they. If they catch us over here, they’re not likely to let us go.”
“Dwarves tend to ignore the surface,” Ortis said. “Unless there are large enough numbers, they won’t interfere.”
“Not quite true,” Hobart said. “There are some things they hate enough to leave their holes to kill them.”
“Right,” Giorge agreed. “We can rule all those out. The fires weren’t small; if they were, we wouldn’t have seen them.”
“Those were the ones by the river,” Hobart said. “As long as we avoid them, we shouldn’t have to deal with large numbers. I’m more concerned with smaller groups further from the river. If they see us, what are they going to do? Will they engage us in combat, or will they tell the larger groups about us? Either way, it will be a problem.”
“Perhaps we’ll see signs of them before we get too close,” Angus said. “That will help.”
“There’s only one question we really need to answer right now,” Giorge said. “Are we willing to fight and kill to reach our goal, or do we flee?”
“We can’t answer that until we know what we’re facing,” Hobart said. “We might be able to negotiate.”
“This is pointless,” Angus said. “You’re not strategizing; you’re talking about potentialities. We need realities before we can strategize. Until we actually know what we’re up against, all this talk is meaningless.”
“Not meaningless, Angus,” Hobart corrected. “If we can narrow down the possibilities, we might know whether or not an attack will come during the day or at night, what kind of weapons they might have, how they would respond to a group of our size—a lot of things. But you are right about one thing; we can’t answer most of these questions until we know what they are. But at least we can begin excluding some of the less likely possibilities, and we’ve started doing that. It will help. We can rule out what the dwarves despise, and that means the likelihood of a night attack also goes down considerably. Most of their enemies are nocturnal. It doesn’t disappear altogether, but it does drop. If we can narrow down the kind of weapons they might have, we can prepare our defenses better. The tactics for defending ourselves against a group of bowmen are considerably different from those against swordsmen, for example, and if we can figure out what they are, we can plan accordingly.”
“Isn’t the best strategy,” Angus said, “to avoid them altogether?”
“Not always,” Hobart said. “They may be potential allies—even out here—and we may need their help before our quest is over.”
“Fine,” Angus said. “You can keep strategizing. I’m going to sleep. I’m exhausted. Don’t wake me unless you have to,” he added.
“Ortis,” Giorge said. “How do you feel about a little night reconnaissance?”
“Don’t go very far,” Hobart suggested. “It would not be good to infringe upon their territory until we’re ready for them.”
“If we see sign,” Ortis said, “I’ll let you know.”
“Dwarves despise….”
Their conversation gradually eased from his awareness as Angus lay down and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for sleep to come, and when it did, it wrapped gently around him like a fog-enshrouded, loving embrace that left him utterly terrified….
2
It was already well past dawn by the time Angus sat down to prime himself for the spells he might need, but something didn’t feel right. When he brought the magic within him into focus, it seemed to be all wrong. This wasn’t the vague sense of the magic within him not being lined up properly; it was as if they were a completely unfamiliar, rudimentary network. And yet, it was the same pattern of energy he had grown accustomed to since waking up with amnesia.
“How long were you Voltari’s apprentice?” the Truthseer had asked.
“Ten years.”
Ten years. But he only remembered one year, the last one. He had learned a lot in that year, and if he had been with Voltari for ten years, he should have learned even more. A lot more. What was keeping him from that knowledge? Why could he remember things when the Truthseer interrogated him that he couldn’t before? The only reason he knew them now was because she had asked him about it. He still didn’t remember those ten years; he only remembered one. But now, the familiar felt so utterly false….
He frowned as he flipped through the pages of Teffles’ book until he reached the flying spell and propped the book open. It had already proven itself to be useful, and he would never master flying without practice. He might even be able to use it to find out what made the fires—if he wanted to. What else might he need? What else could he prime?
The Firewhip spell would be useful in close combat, the whip-like flames only stretched out about fifteen feet. It would complement the Firecluster spell he had primed when he was with Billigan—but had he done the priming correctly? Would it work properly? Would it do something different? Would it kill him?
Hobart was right, knowing what they would be facing did make a difference, even to him. But they still didn’t know what it would be. And what if they weren’t attacked while they were on the plateau? There may not be anything until they got to the temple, and then he would need the kind of spells that would have limited range and effect. And the Lamplight spell; he would need it in the temple. He added that scroll to the Firewhip and looked at the other scrolls. How many more could he prime? Were his limits self-imposed? Or could he draw upon what he had forgotten even though he couldn’t remember it? If he could only prime a few spells at a time after ten years, he didn’t want to remember the other nine….
Most of his scrolls were variations on a theme. Geyser of molten rock. Bubbling pool of molten rock. Molten rock shooting up from the ground. Firewhip. Firecluster. Flame Bubble—Fire and lava—the perfect preparation for working in Hellsbreath. At least Voltari had done that much. What else had he done?
Maybe he should prime the Flame Bubble? It created a sphere of flame around him that he could propel outward at will, but it would weaken in intensity as it got further away from him. But it would put his friends at risk if they were outside the bubble, and the horses….
&n
bsp; He didn’t need to prime for the friction spell; it wasn’t really even a spell. All he had to do was rub a strand of flame magic between his finger and thumb to generate heat, and then touch something flammable. That was what he had done with Giorge’s net. That and the spell from Teffles’ book. He’d have to name it something appropriate. It was like a puff of air, so why not Puffer? But that wasn’t all it could do; simple spells like that always had a multiplicity of uses. He could use it to deflect an arrow, fan flames, and a myriad of other uses. But the more complex a spell became, the more its usefulness dwindled.
Two scrolls and two spells from Teffles book. Firecluster. Lavageyser. Arclight—that had been the spell Voltari had used on him when he touched him without being given permission to do so. A respectable number for an apprentice with but a year of study, but woefully inadequate for one with ten years of rigorous instruction. How many more could he prime?
Angus shook his head to clear it. He needed to get started. They were waiting for him. What should he do? Maybe one of the scrolls Voltari had given him that he wasn’t sure about? One that he didn’t understand? Maybe he had cast them before? If he had, it should be easier to prime than he might think, and the priming, itself, might help him to understand the spell. Or it could destroy him. Magic was always dangerous….
Angus decided to try the most complex spell Voltari had given him. If he could cast it, then he was confident he would be able to cast the others. He could prime it easily enough—the directions were clear—but he didn’t know if he could weave the complex knots involved in the spell. Nor did he know what it would do. He would have to wait to find out when he cast it. But was it worth the risk? Would the priming help him remember being Voltari’s apprentice before the accident? Would the casting? Did he want to remember that time? He nodded to himself. It was worth the risk to find out.
He organized the scrolls for the sequence of his priming, saving the most complex one for last, in case it threatened to overwhelm him. If it did….
It was midday when he finally finished. His companions were restless, impatient, but he didn’t care. He had done it. More to the point, he knew—or thought he knew—what the complex spell would do when it was cast, and he was confident he could cast it.
When he joined the others, he mounted Gretchen without apology, as if they were there for him, and he didn’t have to answer to them. He ignored Hobart’s impatient frown and moved in behind Ortis as they left.
The second Ortis came up beside Angus and looked at him for a long moment before urging his horse a few paces in front of him.
Giorge made a point to fall behind him, joining the third Ortis at the rear.
Late in the late afternoon, a light drizzle began to fall….
3
The drizzle continued for two days, and they rode at a guarded pace.
On the first day, it was fairly easy to follow the road; it hugged the edge of the mountain to the north and skirted the boundary of a sparse pine forest to the south. The pine trees near the road were mostly young ones scarcely taller than a mounted man, and there was plenty of room between most of them. But deeper into the plateau the trees were densely packed old growth, towering trees that had been living on the plateau for hundreds of years.
They made good time despite the weather, and at the end of the day, they camped under an overhang. It wasn’t quite a cave, but it was large enough for both men and horses to keep dry. The dismal weather dampened their spirits, and there was little conversation around the sputtering smoke of the fire they had coaxed to life.
Early on the second day, the road turned southwest, deeper into the forest, and became more difficult to follow. By midday, a thick undergrowth of bushes and vines swarmed over the road, and they lost track of it several times as they rode around them. Each time they left the road behind, they traveled southwest until they found it again; each time it became more difficult to find it.
Late in the afternoon they moved south around yet another sprawling, thorn-encrusted berry patch, and Ortis reined in his steed to wait for them. He had found a trail.
“What do you think made it?” Hobart asked, dismounting to join Ortis as he knelt before the trail.
“Deer, mostly,” he said. “A small herd uses this trail often. Eight, maybe ten individuals. They went that way—” he pointed to the south “—this morning.”
“Deer?” Hobart repeated. “Perhaps we should camp nearby? Fresh meat would be most welcome, don’t you think?”
Ortis didn’t respond; he was studying the tracks. “There are other tracks,” he said. “But they haven’t been through here in some time. The deer tracks have covered them up too much to identify them. There are claw prints, like a large cat, but it isn’t a mountain lion—or any other cat I’ve seen. It looks like it walks on two legs, and the rest of the foot is elongated, like our own.”
“Cat people?” Giorge asked.
Ortis shrugged. “No way to tell,” he said. “The sign is too faint.”
“What do you think they were doing?” Hobart asked.
“Stalking deer,” Ortis said. “Their impressions are shallower going that way—” he pointed north “—than when they came back. They were probably carrying one or more deer with them when they returned.”
“How long since they went through?”
“About a week, maybe a little more. It’s difficult to tell.”
“Then we don’t need to worry about them,” Angus said.
Ortis shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. Winter is getting close, and they may be filling their larder. If they are, they’ll be back for more deer.”
“Do any of you feel like we’re being watched?” Hobart asked. “Like when we did when we were on that ridge?”
“No,” Ortis conceded. “Once we got deeper into the plateau, it went away. I don’t feel it at all right now.”
“Nor I,” Giorge said. “Angus?”
Angus looked from one to another and shook his head. “I haven’t felt anything at all. Here or on the ridge. It doesn’t mean there’s nothing watching us, though; only that we don’t feel like they are.”
“It doesn’t matter at the moment,” Ortis said. “Whatever hunts these deer hasn’t been here for at least a week, and the deer use this trail daily. If we want fresh meat, we need to conceal ourselves soon. If the deer see us, they will run.”
“It’s late enough in the day that we could make an early camp,” Hobart suggested. “While we look for a good spot, you can stick around here to see if you can get a deer. But if you see those other things—whatever they may be—you better let them be. The longer it is before they know we’re here, the better it will be for us.”
“I’ll go up the trail,” Ortis said. “If these things were hunting the deer, they had to have killed them not far from here. Deer wouldn’t be able to climb that mountain; it’s too steep. They also might have a place set up to get the deer, and if they do, I’ll find undisturbed tracks.”
“Just like the ones we’re making,” Angus said, looking at the deep impressions of the horses’ hooves on the soft, muddy ground.
Ortis frowned. “Yes,” he said. “The deer will notice them, too.”
“So will the other thing,” Hobart added. “Perhaps we shouldn’t take the time to hunt? It will slow us down.”
“Not much,” Ortis said. “You said yourself that it’s late enough to make an early camp, and if we set one up near this trail, we won’t have to hunt. We can just wait for the deer to come to us. If they show, we should be able to get one without too much trouble, and the time it takes for butchering it will be well worth it. If they don’t show up, we’re only out another hour or so of riding in this dreary weather.”
“Fair enough,” Hobart said. “We’ll see if we can find the road and make camp next to it. You can stay here and see if you can get a deer.”
“I’ll travel up the trail,” Ortis said. “I’d like to see if I can find clearer prints.”
�
�Keep us updated,” Hobart said. “If you get too wet and cold, come join us.”
Two of Ortis handed their reins to the third, who fell in behind Hobart while his other selves hurried north along the trail.
Angus clicked his tongue, and Gretchen fell in line behind Ortis’s steeds.
Giorge took up the rear guard, his eyes alert.
Half an hour later, they still had not rediscovered the road. Instead, they had come to a narrow, raging stream that had already topped its banks.
“There’s no sense trying to cross it tonight,” Hobart said. “It’s too high and muddy. If this drizzle stops, it should be possible to ford it tomorrow.”
“Do you think we’re north or south of the road?” Angus asked.
“South,” Hobart said at once. “If we had crossed over it again, I would have noticed.”
“Let’s go upstream, then,” Angus said. “The road probably had a bridge over it, and if it didn’t, there may be a shallower place to cross.”
Hobart nodded and guided Leslie around some bushes, keeping the sound of the rushing stream to his left as they went.
“Do we really need the deer?” Angus asked. “We still have plenty of hardtack.”
“We can always use fresh meat,” Giorge said from just behind him. “Hardtack lasts a long time, and supplementing it with fresh meat will make it last even longer.”
“How will we carry around the carcass?” Angus asked.
“After it’s dressed,” Giorge said, “it won’t take up that much room. We’ll drape it over the pack horse.”
Ortis turned in his saddle and added, “Once you’ve spent a few months in a wilderness like this, you’ll realize how important it is to keep food in reserve. That hardtack won’t taint for months, and the longer we have it the better off we’ll be. A stag will feed us for a few days, maybe even a week, before it begins to go bad in this weather, and whatever we don’t eat will be scavenged pretty quickly.”
The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) Page 26
