Luck in the Shadows n-1

by Lynn Flewelling

  "Did they get a good look at you?"

  "I'm not sure they didn't. They were right on my heels all the way to the Fishes. Better safe than dead, eh?"

  Sheltered in their hidden cave, they slept deeply until afternoon.

  "We'd better wait until dark to move on," said Seregil, squinting up at the narrow crack of light from the smoke hole. Pulling his harp from its case, he satisfied himself that it had survived the dunkings of the previous night, then set about tuning it. "We've still got a few hours to kill. Micum, how would you like to give my young apprentice a few lessons in swordsmanship? He'll benefit from learning your methods as well as my own."

  Micum winked at Alec. "What he means is that my ways aren't as dainty as his, but I manage to make my way well enough."

  "Come on now, old friend," Seregil demurred, "I'd be hard pressed if I had to face you in a fight."

  "That's true—but it would be the time I wasn't facing you that I'd worry about! Come on, Alec, I'll show you daylight methods."

  Micum began with the basics, teaching Alec how to grip the weapon so that it balanced to his advantage, what stances presented the smallest target to an opponent, and simple slash and parry maneuvers. Seregil finished his tuning and lazily plucked out a tune, pausing occasionally to offer advice or argue points of style.

  As Alec moved slowly through Micum's drills, he began to suspect that he was learning from two masters of uncommon ability. His arm was soon aching as he tried to deflect Micum's mock attacks. Though Micum's blade was of a heavier make than his own, the man flashed it about as if it weighed no more than a glove.

  "I'm sorry," Alec said at last, slicking sweat from his forehead. "It's hard, moving so slow."

  Micum flexed his shoulders. "It is, but you have to learn to control the movements and direct the blade, not just wave it about until it hits something. Come on, Seregil, let's show him how it's done."

  "I'm busy," replied Seregil, working on a tricky bit of fingering.

  Moving to stand over him, Micum growled, "Put away that twopenny toy, you tit-sucking coistril, and show me the length of your blade!"

  Seregil laid his harp aside with a sigh. "Dear me, that sounds rather like a challenge-" Lunging swiftly past Micum, he sprang to his feet and drew his sword, then swung a flat-bladed attack at Micum's sword arm.

  Micum blocked and countered. Grinning fiercely and showering each other with blistering insults, they battled around the confines of the cave, leaping over the fire pit and threatening to trample Alec underfoot until he wisely retreated to the narrow crevice at the back. From there he watched with delighted admiration as the two of them moved over the uneven floor, graceful as acrobats or dancers.

  At first it seemed to him that Seregil spent more time avoiding attacks then returning them—his movements seemingly effortless as he sprang here and there, his sword flashing up to block a blow, then dodging away, making Micum change his stance to follow him.

  But Micum was no clumsy bear, either. There was a powerful grace to his motions, a steady, implacable rhythm as he pressed his attacks. Soon Alec couldn't have said if Micum was driving or chasing, if Seregil was leading or being driven.

  The mock battle ended in a draw of sorts; choosing his moment, Micum side-stepped an attack, slapped Seregil's blade away, and skewered a loose fold of his tunic.

  At the same moment, however, the wickedly slender poniard appeared somehow in Seregil's left hand, its tip pricking through Micum's jerkin just below his heart. They stood frozen for an instant, then broke away laughing.

  "So arm in arm we tumble down to Bilairy's gate!" Micum said, sheathing his sword. "You marred my jerkin, I see."

  "And you ventilated my new tunic."

  "By Sakor, it serves you right for pulling that rat-sticker in the middle of a proper sword fight, you sneaky bastard!"

  "Isn't that cheating?" Alec inquired, emerging from his crevice.

  Seregil gave the boy a wink and a crooked grin.

  "Of course!"

  "It's no wonder you swear by Illior's Hands,"

  Micum growled in mock exasperation. "I always have to keep an eye on both of yours."

  "Illior and Sakor." Alec shook his head. "You say they're like my gods, but that they've been forgotten in the north."

  "That's right," said Seregil. "Dalna, Astellus, Sakor, and Illior; all part of the Sacred Four. You'll need to know more of them, down in Skala."

  Micum rolled his eyes. "We could be here the rest of the week now. He's worse than a priest on such things!"

  Seregil ignored the protest. "Each one of them rules a different part of life," he explained.

  "And they possess the sacred duality."

  "You mean like how Astellus helps with birth and guides the dead?" asked Alec.

  "Exactly."

  "But what about the others?"

  "Sakor guards the hearth and directs the sun,"

  Micum told him. "He's the soldier's friend, but he also inflames the mind of your enemy and brings on storms and drought."

  Alec turned back to Seregil. "And you always swear by Illior."

  "Where's that coin I gave you?" Taking it, Seregil turned it to the side with the crescent moon.

  "This is the most common sign of Illior. It symbolizes the partial revelation of a greater mystery. The Lightbearer sends dreams and magic, and watches over seers and wizards and even thieves. But Illior also sends madness and nightmares.

  "All the Four are a mix of good and ill, bane and blessing. Some even speak of them as both male or female rather than one or the other. The Immortals show us that it's the natural way of things that good and ill be mixed; separate one from the other and caret both lose their significance. That's the strength of the Four."

  "In other words, if some must be priests, then others must be murderers," Micum noted wryly.

  "Right, so my cheating in a fight is actually a sacred act."

  "But what about the other gods?" asked Alec. "Ashi, and Mor of the Birds, and Bilairy and all?"

  "Northern spirits and legends, for the most part,"

  Seregil said, rising to gather his belongings. "And Bilairy's just the gatekeeper of souls, making certain that none go in or out before the time appointed by the Maker. As far as I know, there was only one other god great enough to challenge the Four—an evil, dark one."

  "Seriamaius, you mean?" said Micum.

  Seregil made a hasty warding sign. "You know it's bad luck to speak the name of the Empty God! Even Nysander says so."

  "Illiorans!" the big man scoffed, nudging Alec. "They've got superstitious streaks a mile wide. It was all legends anyway, started by the necromancers back in the Great War. And good true steel took care of them."

  "Not without considerable help from drysians and wizards," Seregil replied. "And it took the Aurлnfaie to put an end to it."

  "But what about this other god?" asked Alec, feeling a chill go up his back. "Where did it come from if it wasn't part of the Four?"

  Seregil snugged down the straps of his pack.

  "It's said the Plenimarans brought the worship of the Empty God back from somewhere over the seas. It's supposed to have been a pretty unpleasant business, too—all kinds of nasty ceremonies. This deity

  was said to feed off the living energy of the world. He did grant uncanny powers to the faithful, but always at a terrible price. Still, there are always those who will seek such power, whatever the risk."

  "And this Empty God is supposed to have started that great war?"

  "The worship of that god would have been well established by that time—"

  "Sakor's Flame, Seregil, a man could grow old waiting for you to draw breath once you start talking!" Micum interrupted impatiently.

  "We've a long ride ahead of us, and horses to 'find. " Seregil made him a rude gesture, then went to the supply shelf and left a few coins.

  "We don't have much for the larder, but I think this will do." He replaced Erisa's feather token with a bit of knotted cord.<
br />
  Micum fished a fir cone from a pouch and added it to the collection. "We'll need a sign for you, now that you know the place," he said to Alec. "It's good manners to let others know when you've been here."

  Alec found a bit of fletching and placed it with the other things.

  Micum clapped him on the shoulder approvingly.

  "I guess I don't need to ask you to keep our secrets."

  Alec nodded awkwardly and turned to pick up his gear, hoping the others didn't see his embarrassed blush. Whoever these men really were, it felt good to have their trust.

  They left the woods as soon as it was dark and made their way back to the edge of the farmland surrounding the town. It was impossible not to leave a trail across the snow-covered fields, so they kept to the back roads and lanes as much as possible, eyeing each farm as they passed.

  As the last lights in the distant town winked out, Seregil paused on a rise overlooking a prosperous steading.

  "That's what we want," he said. "Dark house, big stable."

  "Good choice," said Micum, rubbing his hands cheerfully. "That's Doblevain's place. He breeds the best horses in the area. You see to the animals. Alec and I will find the tack."

  "All right," Seregil agreed. "Alec, we'll continue your education with a lesson in horse thieving."

  Keeping to the road and the trampled ground of the corral, they managed to leave almost no trail at all as they approached the stable. Just as they reached the door, however, two large mongrels came out of the shadows and advanced on them with raised hackles.

  Facing them calmly, Seregil spoke softly and made the left— handed sign Alec had seen him use on the blind man's dog a few days earlier, with nearly the same effect. Both curs halted for a moment, then trotted forward to lick Seregil's hand, tails whipping happily. He scratched their ears, murmuring to them

  in a friendly tone.

  Micum shook his head. "What I wouldn't give to be able to do that! He's got a drysian's own touch with animals. Must come from his—"

  "Come on, we haven't got all night," Seregil interrupted impatiently, and Alec thought he saw him make some sign to Micum, though he couldn't make out what it was.

  The stable shutters were down, so they decided to risk a light. Micum reluctantly cracked his lightstone into two pieces, handing half to Seregil.

  By the light of the remaining half, he and Alec located the small tack room and began pulling down saddles and gear.

  Seregil soon emerged from the rich, sour darkness of the stalls leading three glossy horses, the dogs still padding contentedly at his heels.

  Snowflakes were spiraling down again as they led their mounts away from the farm. When Seregil judged they were out of earshot, they mounted and set off at a gallop over the fields, trusting the new snow to cover their tracks.

  By sunup they'd covered the miles of open hill country between Wolde and the Folcwine Forest. They came within sight of Stook at the forest's northern border but avoided the town, heading instead down the highroad through the forest.

  New snow lay deep on the road and weighed heavily on the boughs of the trees that flanked it. The sky overhead was a stolid, even grey.

  Seregil and Micum rode slightly ahead of Alec, deep in conversation. Studying their profiles, Alec wondered at how his old life sometimes seemed years gone already, and with it the simple hunter he'd been.

  Lost in his own thoughts, it took a few seconds for him to make the connection between the searing pain that suddenly burned across the top of his left thigh, and the arrow protruding from his horse's side just in front of the girth strap. The animal screamed and threw him, then bolted down the road.

  The snow cushioned his fall. Dumbfounded, he reached down and felt the shallow gash in his leg. The wound was minor, but the suddenness of it all seemed to numb him momentarily. It wasn't until he'd struggled up to check his bow that he truly understood what was happening. As if time had paused and was now resuming its normal course, the air around him was instantly filled with an angry hail of arrows.

  "Alec, get down!" Seregil shouted from somewhere nearby.

  Clutching his bow and quiver, Alec dropped and scrambled on his belly to the nearest trees. Rolling into their shelter, he peeked cautiously around a tree trunk, realizing too late that he was on the opposite side of the road from Micum. Four archers stood in the road less than two hundred feet away, sending out a volley of arrows. Alec also caught a glimpse of others working their way through the trees in his direction.

  The archers kept up their steady attack; arrows sang in the air, nipping off a hail of twigs around him,

  thudding into the trees he sheltered behind. There was no sign of Seregil except a third track snaking off through the snow into the trees beyond Micum.

  Left more or less on his own, Alec knew what his next step had to be.

  His heart pounded sickeningly as he fitted an arrow to the string and took aim at a man for the first time in his life. A tall archer standing boldly at the edge of the road presented an easy target, but try as he might, Alec couldn't seem to hold steady.

  Startled by a horse's scream, he released the shaft high and it sped off uselessly into the trees.

  Micum's gelding drove itself into a heap just in front of him, a shaft protruding from its throat. Another arrow slammed into the beast's chest and it gave a final bellowing groan.

  "The bastards know their business, killing the horses," Micum called over to him. "I hope you have a few shafts left—I'm pinned down here!"

  Nocking a second arrow, Alec drew the fletching to his ear and tried again.

  "O Dalna!" he whispered as his bow arm wavered again. "Let me pull true!"

  Damn, he can't do it, Micum thought in alarm, watching Alec's face.

  Before he could decide how to get across to help him, however, a bandit with a sword rushed him from the trees.

  Silently commending Alec to whatever gods he had, Micum turned to meet the attack.

  It was his habit to look into his opponent's eyes as he fought; in this scarred, swarthy face he read no fear. Their swords rang out a steady, grim music as each, conscious of the uncertain footing beneath the snow, tried to draw the other into a clumsy misstep. Suddenly Micum saw the man's gaze flicker to the left.

  Jumping aside, he faced the second swordsman before the man had time to swing at his back. Thinking Micum had off-balanced himself, the first man overextended a lunge and Micum's blade took him under the ribs.

  Even as he jerked the blade free, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and barely avoided a slicing cut at his shoulder from a third swordsman. Drawing a long dagger with his left hand, Micum moved back, trying to keep them both in front of him. These two were younger, less sure of themselves than the first, but they knew their trade. Learing like wolves, they stayed wide apart, making it difficult to defend from both at once. One would cut at him to draw a parry, while the other tried to hamstring him on his open side. But Micum had been in too many fights like this to be drawn. Using his sword and dagger, he managed to fend off their attacks and return a few thrusts of his own.

  Pinking one of them on the arm, he said easily, "I think it's only fair to tell you that my purse is far too light for you to go to such trouble to take it." His attackers exchanged a quick glance but made no reply, grimly pressing to break his guard.

  "Suit yourselves, then."

  The man to his right feinted forward strongly, managing to nick Micum on the ribs just deeply enough to make him regret leaving his mail shirt behind in Wolde. Springing back, however, the man missed his footing in the churned snow and staggered. Micum killed him before he'd regained his balance and was just turning to address his final opponent when a sharp blow from behind knocked him to his knees. Looking down, he found a bloody arrowhead protruding from the front of his leather shirt just beneath his right arm. The two swordsmen, unable to break through his defense, had managed to push him out onto the road and into the archers range.

  Serves m
e right for not paying attention, he thought angrily, seeing the final stroke coming down. Before it could, though, the bravo fell backward with a red-fletched arrow squarely through his chest.

  Ducking for cover again, Micum looked across the road. Alec knelt behind the dead horse, returning the archers' shots with a singing volley of his own. Two lay dead already, and another dropped as Micum watched.

  "By the Flame," Micum gasped. " By the Flame!»

  Seregil disappeared into the forest at the first sign of ambush. Making a wide circuit, he outflanked three swordsmen headed in Alec's direction and then worked his way into their path, concealing himself behind a fallen tree until they came abreast of him. When all three had passed, he jumped out and swung at the hindmost, killing him with a slash across the back of the neck. The second man turned in time to catch Seregil's blade in the throat.

  Unfortunately, the third man—a great, heavyset villain armed with a broadsword—had ample time to face him. He caught Seregil's first blow at midblade, throwing it back in an attempt to wrench it free. Seregil maintained his grip, but the force of the blow sent an unpleasant shock up his arm.

  He considered a timely retreat into the woods, but the snow was too deep for sprinting. Springing back a pace, he sized up his opponent.

  Evidently the other man was doing the same; he gestured derisively at the slender blade Seregil carried, spat into the snow, then launched a mighty swing at his head. Hoping for the best, Seregil pulled a dagger and ducked under the blade, throwing himself at his adversary's knees. The unexpected move caught the man off guard just long enough for Seregil to bury the knife in his thigh. With a bellow of pain, the man tumbled backward, dragging Seregil with him, and immediately rolled to pin him.

  Caught face down under the larger man's bulk, Seregil choked on the powdery snow. Try as he might, he couldn't break free. Then the weight shifted and cold, callused hands were around his throat, cutting off his wind and shaking him like a rat.