North Star Guide Me Home

by Jo Spurrier

  That set him thinking about the severed limb. After a while, curiosity won out and he pulled out the bundle wrapped in bloody cloth. He exposed the cut he’d made days ago, in a futile effort to save the ruined hand, and sliced deeper. What he found was interesting — some of the shards had attempted to knit, surrounded by spongy masses of bone. Towards the wrist, however, there was no sign of healing and mired deep between the fragments he found the stinking suppuration of infection. It had been there a long time, he judged, and explained why Isidro had been prone to falling ill whenever he pushed himself too hard.

  Rasten bundled the limb up again and washed his hands and the knife both. He checked on Isidro again, and gave him some water, trickling it through his lips a few drops at a time. Then he reheated the rocks and cast a shield over the still form.

  Then Rasten set off to climb the cliff above their little camp. The soldiers may have tracked down Cammarian and the woman, but it seemed to Rasten they had no idea where to find their true targets — though that would change when Sierra snatched her friends back and laid a fresh trail into the canyon.

  At the top of the bluff, Rasten lay down in the dust and crawled to the highest point on the cliff. He had a good view to the north and west and could just make out a low ridge which could be where Sierra’s allies were pinned. Rasten reached for Sierra and found her kicking her weary horse onwards with the sun behind her right shoulder.

  He moved around to the eastern face of the bluff. The land dropped away to the east, leading to a sunken basin that was even more arid and parched than the dry grasslands they’d crossed on Kell’s trail. Beyond the ridges and gorges was a plume of yellow dust, a dirty cloud that clung low to the ground.

  He stayed there for some time, watching and thinking. The cloud did not appear to move. Did that mean it was too far away to register any progress? Or was it heading straight towards them? He touched Sierra’s mind again, and found her still riding as before. After a moment’s debate he decided against telling her — there was no sense making her worry. Whatever came this way, Rasten could deal with it. He’d promised to keep Isidro safe, and she’d be back soon enough.

  He scrambled down from his perch and checked on Isidro. There was no change, but at this point that was still good news. He pinched the skin on the back of the unconscious man’s hand — still somewhat slow to smooth out again — and gave him more water. With a blanket and a few stout branches, Rasten built a lean-to over Isidro and left a bowl of water and a charged lantern-stone beside his head. He watered the horses and saddled one of them, and then set fresh wards around the remaining two plus Isidro’s shelter.

  Once everything was secure, Rasten swung into the saddle and turned the horse to the east.

  He wasn’t sure what he ought to do if that cloud truly meant soldiers were marching towards them. For all his power and skill, he was no warrior. When he’d faced men on a battlefield, he’d always been under Kell’s orders, or else guided by men who’d trained as warriors since they could hold a wooden sword. He’d have to consult with Sierra, he supposed, and with Cammarian, if she’d met up with him by then.

  Whatever happened, and whatever they decided to do next, they’d have to fight through a step at a time. Going back to Ricalan seemed an impossible journey, a huge distance when both they and their horses were exhausted and worn thin, and supplies running out.

  But he wouldn’t have to do it alone, Rasten reminded himself. He had Sierra now, and soon enough Cammarian and the Akharian mage as well. Soon Isidro would wake, and provided his wits weren’t permanently addled, the thought of Isidro telling them what to do gave him the strongest sense of relief. It’ll be alright, Rasten told himself. They’ll come up with something.

  He nudged the horse into a trot, heading eastwards as best he could guess with the sun high in the sky. Whatever was kicking up that cloud of dust, it would be best if they passed on by, Rasten thought. But if their march took them towards the shelter, it’d be safer to kill them than risk moving Isidro now.

  He was lost in thought when his horse shortened its stride and threw its head up, pricking its ears to one side of the dry and sandy riverbed. Rasten brought it to a halt.

  Part of the stream’s dry bank had collapsed. There were some marks around it, but reading any nuances from tracks in soft sand took more skill than Rasten had.

  His eyes searched the patchy scrub, and then he glanced back to the east. Was that a hint of yellow cloud above the ridge? If they were soldiers, they’d have scouts out searching. A scout ought to be skilled enough not to leave such tracks, but then again, everyone made mistakes. With a scowl for the dry streambed he’d been following, Rasten turned his horse towards the bank.

  The tracks led away from the riverbed in a straight line — there were several pairs of feet there, moving in haste, though after only a few dozen lengths the sand gave way to rock and hard-packed earth. To the east was a bushy thicket, and behind it a rocky outcrop.

  He was perhaps a score of yards away from the pocket of scrub when he heard a hiss of muffled voices and a scrape of rocks. With a rustle of vegetation, three figures burst from the meagre shelter and scattered, bent double as they bolted away like startled hares.

  Without thinking, Rasten summoned a lash of power and snared the nearest one, seizing the figure by the lower leg and sending them slamming into the loose stone. He’d already acted when he realised it wasn’t a man, but a woman, Ricalani like him. She was barefoot, wearing ragged clothes the colour of dust. Her hair was long and matted, and it had once been black before the southern sun had bleached it to a rusty brown. She tried to scramble away, but his snare held her fast and as he came near she rolled onto her back, gazing up at him and breathing hard.

  But then, as she squinted up at him, a peculiar expression crossed her face. Her pinched, fearful expression relaxed, her eyes grew wider, her mouth slack. ‘By the Twin Suns, you’re a northerner?’ she said in Ricalani. ‘Please help me, please …’

  Rasten dismounted, never taking his eyes from the woman. She was close to his own age, bleeding in a few places from her hard fall. There was a manacle around one wrist, the same sort he’d seen on the women he’d freed from the work team last winter. ‘I won’t take you back,’ he said. ‘You were a slave?’

  She gave a sob of relief. ‘I … yes, yes, I slipped away a few days ago, me and some others. You’re Ricalani, aren’t you? You’re not Akharian?’

  ‘I’m Ricalani,’ he said, advancing on her slowly. That expression … was it relief? He was used to people reacting with dread and despair at the sight of him. This felt … odd, strange enough to make him feel uneasy and on edge.

  She stopped struggling and hugged her arms around herself. ‘Will you help me? Please?’

  It felt wrong. It felt like a trap. When had anyone ever asked him for help? But she didn’t know who he was, or what he was, he reminded himself. He released the tether and offered her a hand. Gingerly, she accepted it and let him pull her to her feet.

  He felt it at the first touch — power lurked within her. It was no more than the barest spark, no more than Isidro had had when Rasten first saw him. It was too weak to warrant a warding stone, far too weak for the Akharians to consider a threat. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  She sniffed, and her hand trembled in his. ‘Greska,’ she said.

  Then, in the distance, Rasten heard dogs barking.

  Greska stiffened and tried to pull away. Rasten tightened his grip, trapping her hand in his, while he glanced back at the horse. It turned towards the sound, head up and ears pricked.

  ‘Oh, by the Black Sun, they’ve found us,’ Greska said. ‘Please, let me go! We have to run!’

  The dogs were getting closer. Rasten could hear them clearly now. ‘Stay by me,’ he commanded the girl. ‘I can keep them off.’

  She gave him a look of fearful disbelief. It took Rasten a moment to work out why. He had no weapon other than the knife at his belt, and the dogs were in sight
now, racing towards them with heads and tails up with the joy of the hunt.

  He cast a shield, and the dogs slammed into it a half-second apart, bouncing off with a force that sent them sprawling.

  Rasten felt a familiar cold rise up within him at the sight. He didn’t like to hurt animals, but he’d kill them if need be. But the dogs backed away, still barking. They seemed small compared to the hounds he knew, with thin, flat coats of brown and buff.

  Their relentless barking woke a memory, uncoiling like a snake awaking from the cold. Dogs barked frantically, snarling at the door, while someone outside hammered on it, and the men within — he couldn’t see their faces, the picture in his mind blurred and slid away if he tried — slotted stout bars into place. He knew what happened next, he’d seen it in his nightmares before fresh horrors came to push the old ones aside. The door tore apart in a burst of light and noise, a storm of pain, as shards of wood speared men and dogs alike, hurling them aside like wreckage.

  ‘Quiet!’ Rasten bellowed, letting power flood his voice. The dogs cowered and fell silent with a whine, and turned to slink away.

  But it was too late. There were men and horses coming.

  There were five of them, mounted on sweating, foaming horses and shouting to each other. At their arrival, the dogs retreated, and once within the safety of their pack began to bark and bay once more.

  Rasten glanced back and found Greska creeping closer to him, cowering into the shelter of his back. ‘Spirit of storm defend me,’ she whispered.

  Rasten could well imagine the punishment they’d turn on a woman who dared try to escape.

  The men spread out to face him. ‘That’s a runaway slave you’ve got there,’ one of them said in Akharian. ‘Good of you to hold her for us, but we’ll take her back now. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any others?’ As he spoke, Rasten could feel the man’s eyes taking in his northern features. ‘And what are you doing out here, friend? Seems like you’re a long way from home.’

  ‘That’s none of your concern,’ Rasten replied in the same tongue.

  ‘My apologies, friend, I don’t mean to pry. But that slave is ours, and we’ve more to hunt down today, so just hand her over and we can go about our business.’

  Rasten looked them over, their stained and patched clothing, mounted on scrubby horses with much-mended tack. No soldiers, after all, just a slave-train and hired guards. The dogs were still barking and the incessant sound was a thorn of irritation lodged inside his skull, threatening to bring a haze of red over his vision.

  He shrugged. ‘Come and get her.’

  The men died. Rasten tried to spare the horses, though of course the beasts ran off.

  When it was done, Rasten turned back to the girl, Greska. She’d caught his horse’s reins, but it had grown accustomed to mage-craft and was only mildly spooked by the scent of blood. The girl was far more frightened and, as Rasten reclaimed his mount, she shrank away.

  That, at least, was familiar. He knew how to deal with that.

  ‘W-who are you?’ she said. ‘You’re a mage, but how can a northerner learn mage-craft? You talk like them, too …’ Her eyes narrowed as she trailed off. He doubted there was anyone in Ricalan who didn’t know who and what he was. He’d heard that mothers frightened their children into good behaviour with his name.

  ‘How did you slip away?’ he said.

  ‘I … I stole a key from one of the Slavers when he took me to his bed, and I set as many loose as I could. Dozens of us broke away, but they must have found most of them by now.’

  ‘It’s a large party, coming from the east across the yellow plains?’

  The girl nodded. ‘You … you’re him, aren’t you? The Apprentice?’

  Rasten didn’t answer. He glanced up at the sun, judging how much time had passed. It was unwise to leave Isidro alone for too long … but a slave-train was simpler to deal with than a detachment of soldiers.

  He’d set them free. He knew too well what it meant to be a slave, to see one’s home destroyed and one’s family torn apart, to be taken far away from everything he knew and loved and to be forced to serve those who had brought it about.

  There’d be no more than a few dozen guards, and he’d be surprised if they had any mages — it would be no effort. Then Sierra would have people to feed her with power, and it would give them better defences against the Akharians when they did come.

  Rasten swung up into the saddle while Greska watched him with fearful, uncertain eyes. ‘I’ll deal with the Slavers,’ he told her. ‘Find your friends, the folk who were hiding with you. You can wait here or follow my trail back to the camp. Just don’t touch anything you find there … but you could probably feel the wards, I’d guess. But first you should see if these men had anything you can use. Oh, and come here. I’ll do something about that cuff.’

  At his command she crept closer. She’d been conditioned to obey, and the shock made her fall back into that learnt response. Trembling, she offered him her hand, and with a thread of power he pulled out the pin that locked the arms together, letting them fall to the rocks with a clatter.

  Greska watched him wide-eyed, and when he turned away, she seized his sleeve. ‘Wait! Can you teach me? To do what you did? I … I know my power is weak, or else they would have killed me, but there must be some way I can fight them. I’ll do anything, my lord, by the Bright Sun, anything at all.’

  Rasten fell still. Her power was a paltry thing … but he’d seen folk with weak power before, and seen what happened when Kell’s rituals sent energy tearing through them, blasting open channels that had petrified through lack of use. Only one of those had ever lived long enough for him to see the full effect of those rituals. Was he an outlier, or could such a transformation be expected each time?

  Rasten shook himself, and pulled his arm free. ‘I’ll speak to you about that later,’ he said and turned his horse back towards the dry river, booting it into a trot.

  As he rode, he reached out to Isidro, and found only an empty blackness. Sierra’s touch would keep the pain from troubling him for some time yet. Next, he reached for Sierra, and found her drinking thirstily from a water-skin, with her power running high and the air around her full of the scent of blood.

  Rasten, she said. What is it? Is Isidro worse?

  No, he’s fine, Rasten said. Something’s come up, but I can handle it.

  More soldiers?

  No, just some slaves and a few guards. I’ll deal with it. Have you found Cammarian and the woman?

  Yes, they’re safe. I’ve been hunting horses and gear for them, but we have it now. Rasten, please hurry, don’t leave him alone for too long.

  I’ll be quick, Rasten said. He broke the contact and kicked his horse into a canter.

  He was almost at the eastern edge of the gorges, with the yellow cloud of dust looming ahead. As he climbed the ridge it came into sight, a dark, sprawling line lost beneath the shadow of the cloud.

  Rasten turned his horse towards the head of the line and kicked it onwards.

  At first no one reacted — they must have assumed he was one of the party sent out to track the runaways. It was only once he grew close enough for them to realise that his colouring and the horse were unfamiliar that some riders pushed forward to meet him.

  ‘Ho there!’ the nearest of them called. ‘Who in the hells are you? What do you want?’ He slowed his horse as Rasten drew near, leaning forward to peer through the rising dust. When he made out Rasten’s northern features, the man’s face turned hard and he reached for his sword.

  He never had a chance to draw it. Rasten caught him around the neck with a lash of power and broke his spine with a wrench. As he slid limp from the saddle, his horse shied beneath him, but Rasten had already turned to the milling riders. One of them leant over to talk to the dead man, unaware he was beyond all hearing.

  Rasten hurled them all aside with a blast of power, sending men and horses tumbling like leaves. He knew this sort and what they did with prison
ers. When he’d had them in the cells, he’d made them speak of what they’d done, while Rasten inflicted the same punishment on them. Kell had enjoyed that, it had earned Rasten one of the few rewards he’d ever received from his master’s hands.

  Recalling it made his lip curl, and Rasten shoved the memory aside as he sought the next knot of riders. Behind him, the slaves started to break out of their lines, and one rank, bound by a long chain, veered across to the tangle of men and horses struggling to their feet. Rasten paid them no mind — around him, shrouded in dust, men shouted in confusion and alarm, whips cracking in the still air as the guards tried to force the slaves back into line.

  At first it was a simple game to hunt men through the shifting dust, but as more fell and the slaves broke loose, swarming over the fallen men, his prey realised the situation had slipped out of their hands. A few tried to hide amid the milling crowd, but the slaves turned on them tearing the men apart before Rasten’s eyes. Others tried to flee and many of them managed it, because unless he was at the edge of the obscuring cloud Rasten saw nothing else of them except for a fleeing shape swiftly vanishing in the dust cloud.

  In the end, he had to give up the game and let his horse stand and pant, its coat muddy with sweat. Rasten was breathing hard himself — power thundered in his ears, though he’d made no effort to draw it from those he killed. He must have taken it from Sierra, he thought. They were so used to feeding power back and forth that neither thought it anything out of the ordinary. Rasten clenched his fists, savouring the ache of his knuckles. His wounded shoulder ached, but it was a healing kind of throb. The power pulsing within him wanted more — more blood, more pain, more destruction. Rasten drew a deep breath, acknowledging the desire but regarding it passively, waiting for it to burn itself out like flames starved of fuel. The power was his tool, and not the other way around.

  While he rested, settling his roiling power to a simmer, silhouettes loomed out of the dust, coalescing into filthy, ragged figures that halted at a respectful distance.