A warning tickle raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he turned to see the king standing apart from his men, some of whom had started staggering toward Markal as his horse broke into a trot. Toth raised his hands and pointed. Men cried out as a lance of shadow formed at the king’s hands. Once again, Toth was drawing pain from his own men. He hurled the shadowy lance toward Markal, who braced himself to be torn apart.
But the distance was too great. Or perhaps the king, powerful as he was, had spent too much of his power. It lost strength as it flew, and was like a blast of sandy wind driven off the desert when it hit. When the attack passed, Markal felt nauseated, but remained in the saddle. The horse picked up speed as they cleared the gates and ran down the dirt path toward the king’s road, some twenty yards distant.
As Markal reached the road, workers and soldiers turned away, their attention dragged elsewhere. Even donkeys pulling carts shied away.
It must be his spell from earlier, still hanging about him. It had to be. It was stronger than he’d thought, but by all that was holy, why had the magic failed him at the last moment? He’d needed one last incantation, one last surge of strength to make the enemy soldiers weaken before they overwhelmed Bronwyn. He hadn’t managed, and now she was dead. He’d seen the sword thrusts, heard her dying cry.
He angrily fought down the lump of pain in his throat and the tears that came to his eyes. He had no time for it, couldn’t afford to lay blame on himself, not now. He had to escape with the sword before it fell into Toth’s hands. That was his only purpose now.
Markal galloped up the road. He was tempted to touch the sword hilt to see what it said. Blood of the Path, that would be stupid.
Instead, he rode for a quarter of a mile or so, then cut left, toward the forest. There was a natural opening in the trees, not very wide, but enough to allow horse and rider through. No doubt he’d have to make his way on foot at some point, but the longer he could ride, the better.
He picked his way along for nearly an hour before he smelled smoke filtering through the damp green woods. Soon, the air was thick with it, and the roar of crackling and splitting trees drowned out all sound.
It seemed the enemy was hunting him with fire.
Chapter Eighteen
The fire drew closer for a half hour, until Markal was afraid he’d have to abandon his poor horse to outrun the flames on foot, but then he happened upon a deer trail. He picked up speed, and the choking smoke receded.
The horse was trembling and exhausted when he stopped at a stream an hour later to let it drink. He took a little wine and ate a piece of cheese. He was almost faint with exhaustion and hunger, and the food and drink helped.
He patted his mare on the neck. “There, you’ll be all right. I think we’ve escaped—not like our friends, eh? At least your friend is still alive. Probably doomed to carry some arrogant pasha, but it’s a warhorse, and they’re too valuable to pull a cart.”
Markal wasn’t Narud—he couldn’t communicate directly to the mare—but speaking aloud calmed him. He was still alive, and that was a start.
He eyed Soultrup. The sword tip had worked further through the hole in the bottom of the saddlebag. He couldn’t wait much longer or it might slip through entirely. No doubt the cursed thing was purposefully working to saw itself free.
Markal found a spare shirt in the opposite bag, wrapped it around his hand, and gingerly touched Soultrup’s hilt. Nothing, not even a whisper. He lifted it out and set it on the ground. It wasn’t gleaming red, but dried blood caked the surface, making it look ugly and vicious. He found a needle and thread in Bronwyn’s gear and stitched up the hole in the leather saddlebag.
“That should keep my supplies from falling out,” he said. “Now what about the blasted sword?”
The horse had calmed a little, and found a patch of weeds sprouting where the forest opened to let a shaft of daylight to the forest floor. It looked up from cropping at the plants.
“Go ahead,” he told it. “Don’t let me disturb your supper.”
Markal drank the rest of the wine from the skin, then tore the spare shirt into strips. Using the empty wineskin like a mitten to hold the sword while he worked, he wrapped the linen strips around the blade until he had it covered in a makeshift scabbard. Then he used a length of rope to tie it to the saddlebags. It would be more secure there, so long as he didn’t do something stupid like reach out to touch the hilt.
“Ready to go?” he asked the horse. “You’re tired—I won’t make you carry me—but if I can walk, so can you. Come on, we’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”
It was late afternoon, and he didn’t want to spend the night in the forest. He remembered a small brook that cut through the forest, and he guessed it connected with Blossom Creek. Did this stream lead to the larger brook? If so, he could find the brook, follow it by moonlight until he reached open country, and from there locate Blossom Creek. That would lead him home.
But shortly, the stream fell over a series of cataracts that he couldn’t descend. When he tried to go around, he lost its path. It was soon late afternoon, and the light flickering through the forest canopy turned dim, spreading a carpet of shadows across the forest floor. Markal kept groping forward looking for the stream, but growing increasingly frustrated.
Suddenly, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and arms. He grabbed the horse’s reins.
There was something moving off somewhere to his right. He couldn’t see it, and it made no sound that rose above the chatter of birds, but when he turned his head, the breeze carried the sharp tang of magic. It was distant yet, but definitely there. The horse shivered and tossed its head.
“Quiet now,” he whispered.
Moving more carefully, his senses on high alert, Markal bent to the left. He needed to go generally right, in a southeasterly direction, but he couldn’t do that until he got around whatever he was sensing. Unfortunately, that course carried him back toward the Tothian Way, and when the wind shifted again, he smelled smoke.
It was then that he stumbled across the brook, burbling along. Never mind the small stream he’d been searching for earlier, he’d found its destination and could follow it out of the forest. There was better light here, too, and a gravel riverbank to follow. He urged the horse to hurry so he could take advantage of the dying sunlight.
A crash in the brush and movement to his left caught his attention. He froze and listened for voices, but heard nothing. But it wasn’t his imagination—the bushes were still quivering. It must be an animal.
As if to confirm his thoughts, a snarl rumbled from the brush. By the Brothers, a wolf? There were no wolves native to Aristonia, although nearby khalifates had seen starving packs come in off the drought-stricken northern highlands. It could be that. But what of the scent of magic he’d caught earlier? This might be no ordinary predator.
The horse was trembling violently, and he loosened his grip on the reins. It pulled him into motion. They’d traveled at least a dozen miles since dawn, but the horse had plenty of energy now that they were threatened. Markal trotted to keep up.
The beast kept pace in the trees and brush at their left. Every once in a while, a long shadow showed itself, and when he paused to catch his breath, there was another growl, more sinister sounding. Finally, man and horse came around a bend in the creek to find a large shape blocking their way.
At first glance, it looked like a massive wolf, nearly the size of a lion, but when it stared at them, eyes gleaming in the darkness, there was something strange about the head. No, not a wolf. A dog. A wolfhound. A huge animal with massive jaws. There was cunning intelligence in its eyes and magic hanging about its body that mingled with its musky scent.
Markal’s heart pounded in fear. He jerked the horse’s reins and crossed the brook to get away from the beast and onto the far bank. It splashed after them, and he whirled, lifting his arms to protect his face and neck, but it didn’t spring at him. Instead it veered into the brush and vanished.
The right bank was steeper, with large gnarled trees bent over the water, and he could no longer easily follow the brook. He brought the horse up the bank and into the woods, and soon couldn’t hear the gurgling water. Only his sharp eyes allowed them to move forward at all, as it was now quite dark.
The enormous dog was on the move again. Twice, it came crashing along in the brush, once from the left, the other time keeping pace to the right. A sinister growl sounded deep in its chest. Markal had been following another deer path, but suddenly a fallen tree blocked their way, and standing on it was the dog. It snarled and sprang at him.
Somehow, both Markal and his horse got into the trees and left the dog behind. It was toying with them. No, it was driving them. North and west instead of south and east. The sorcerer must have sent the creature to track Markal down and force him back toward danger.
Markal tried several times to push in the opposite direction, but every time he did so, the dog came snarling out of the brush to drive them back on course. He must have retraced most of his steps by now, although the prevailing wind pushed the smoke away, so it was hard to tell for sure. Once, Markal tried to raise magic to drive the animal away, but he still had nothing.
And then, moonlight. Markal and his mare came staggering out of the woods and into an open, grassy valley. Where the blazes was he?
The dog emerged from the woods behind them, pacing back and forth and growling when Markal tried to retreat to the forest. He thought briefly about mounting the horse and making a run for it, but there was no way the mare could carry him, as tired as it was. His eyes fell on the sword. What if he tore off the linen strips and swung it at the dog? No, that was madness.
Markal felt suddenly compelled to look over his shoulder and away from the animal. There was nothing there. When he turned back around, the dog was gone. In his place was a man standing naked beneath the gibbous moon. Narud.
“You!” Markal said. Relief flooded through him. “That was you all along?”
Narud cocked his head. “What a strange sensation. My mind was clear enough, but I couldn’t seem to control my thoughts. It was . . . different.”
“Blood of the Path, what were you doing?”
“You wouldn’t believe the smells. I sensed the horse at two miles, you at a mile. It’s like seeing something right in front of your face, only it’s a scent. Come on.”
“Narud, will you explain yourself? I’m exhausted and have no time for games. Where are we?”
“Agria. Don’t you recognize it? You came through here yesterday—can’t you smell it? And the barbarian. She was here with you. I can smell her, too.”
“How is that possible? Isn’t Agria in . . . ?”
Markal started to point in the direction he’d been trying to travel, but caught a glimpse of the position of the moon and the stars in the sky. They were all wrong, and he felt spun around and disoriented. He cursed.
“I don’t know where you thought you were going,” Narud said, “but you were following some stream that was going to take you north to the king’s highway. Markal, he’s a wizard. King Toth is a sorcerer, a necromancer. It was him all along.”
“I know.” Markal felt suddenly weary and depressed.
“Where is Bronwyn now? I smelled blood on the sword, but it’s not the paladin’s. Was she captured?”
“She’s gone, Narud. She slew Pasha Malik, but couldn’t get to the king. Then Veyrian soldiers overwhelmed her. Thank the Brothers I recovered her weapon. It has turned against us.”
“I see.” Narud’s voice was grim, and for a long moment, neither man spoke. “The master is awake, Markal.”
“Ah, so that’s how you shifted to a dog. Memnet did it.”
“Memnet is weak, recovering. No, it was another wizard who turned me.”
“Another wizard? Who?” Markal asked, bewildered.
“Come on, we have to hurry. I was pushing you, forcing you through the woods. There are enemies searching for you, and there’s no time to waste. That’s why I menaced you back there—I had to make you think I’d tear your throat out or you’d have stopped moving.”
“You couldn’t have found some other way to communicate? Use your paw to scratch a message in the dirt or something? Bark and stare in the right direction? Hell, even sniff my crotch in a friendly way?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Narud said solemnly. “My thoughts were not so coherent. You should try being a dog sometime and you’ll see what I mean.”
“No, thanks.”
“Listen to me, Markal, the enemy is going to find your earlier trail and track you back to the gardens. And it will be men this time, and maybe even the sorcerer. We have to get back and prepare the defenses.”
“All right, I get it. Come on.”
They soon reached the abandoned village of Agria. Now that Markal knew what had become of the villagers, enslaved to work for the high king, the place had a dismal, forlorn air. The huts and cottages looked like tombstones beneath the moonlight, a long row of them on either side of the rutted path that served as the village road.
They stopped long enough to break into a crofter’s hut and steal a pair of worn sandals for Narud and a tunic to throw over his naked body. Narud was more taciturn than the other three apprentices, preferring the company of sparrows and earthworms to humans, but tonight he was energized by his transformation into a dog. In spite of the danger and their haste to return to the gardens, he couldn’t stop sharing observations: what things smelled like, how his sight differed, what it meant to think like a dog, the thrill of running flat out.
“Next time, I’ll try something different,” Narud said. “There’s no end to it—you only need a slight modification of the incantation. I could turn into a hedgehog if I wanted, or a badger. How about a meadow vole? Imagine what that would be like. Such bright, sharp thoughts, although regrettably, not very clever.”
“Not much point in it,” Markal said, “unless you fancy being scooped up by an owl.”
“Very well then, I’ll turn myself into the owl. Surely you can see the value of that.” Narud frowned. “Of course, that might take more power, I’m not sure. It took plenty to manage a dog, I can tell you that.”
Markal’s exhaustion had only grown with Narud’s appearance. He’d been as taut as a bowstring during the flight from the wolfhound, and with the dissipation of that energy, he felt every mile he’d walked. He was footsore, muscles aching, body demanding sleep to recover from the expenditure of magic. He’d been happy enough to let Narud prattle on, but now he studied his companion.
“Yes, about that power. Who is this other wizard? Someone from Memnet’s old order? How did he find us?”
The corner of Narud’s mouth lifted mischievously. “Quite strange. I never expected it. Thought it would be Chantmer or Nathaliey. I’ll bet you did, too.”
“Narud, I am too tired for this. Will you stop babbling and tell me straight out so I can put my thoughts to other matters?”
“Would you believe that I’m the wizard? It’s me, Markal! Of course, I have decades yet of study ahead of me, but I’m no longer an apprentice. Memnet proclaimed it. I’m really a wizard.”
Narud explained how he’d worked with Chantmer and Nathaliey to master a spell Jethro sent them from the library, but Markal scarcely paid attention. He fought down an annoyed shrug. So what? Why should it take all three of them an entire night?
Bringing up the magic to do it was another matter entirely. Markal didn’t know the spell in question (though he was sure he could hold the thing in his head after an hour or two of intense study), but guessed at its classification. An impressive feat for three apprentices to gather the power. Even more impressive for the one who channeled it. That was Narud. The master had apparently been impressed, too. Raised from the dead—who wouldn’t find that impressive?
But what did it mean? Memnet could proclaim Narud a wizard, but that didn’t make him more powerful, any more than placing a crown on a man’s he
ad made him more wise and kingly. King Toth’s horrific turn to necromancy attested to that. Declaring Narud a full-fledged wizard wouldn’t fill the former apprentice’s head with more arcana, nor raise the blood any faster to his pores. It wouldn’t make the incantations any less slippery in his mind or on his tongue.
And what did it mean for the other three apprentices? Were they supposed to defer to Narud now? That was hard to imagine. Never mind Chantmer’s pride, Nathaliey’s self-confidence, or Markal’s own knowledge, for that matter, Narud lacked the authority to impose his will.
So he was a wizard. When it came to it, weren’t they all wizards, after a fashion? To an outsider, even an archivist like Jethro had the ability to come and go without being seen, to muddle the thoughts of enemies, and to read books that would not even open for other men and women. That was wizardry.
So why should it matter that Memnet had given Narud a title? And yet it did matter. Markal could not convince himself otherwise. Narud had changed himself into a dog, a clear manifestation of power. Perhaps he wasn’t a great wizard like Memnet yet, but he was a wizard nonetheless.
How long for the others? That’s right, it wasn’t only Narud. Clearly, Chantmer and Nathaliey were on the cusp of such a transition themselves. None of the three would rival Memnet the Great, but they would earn the right to stand by his side.
And Markal? Relegated to the libraries. Of course he would be.
Chapter Nineteen
Nathaliey was working at the north gate just after dawn when Markal and Narud appeared leading an exhausted, stumbling horse. She was relieved to see them both, but especially Markal, and she threw her arms around his neck before she remembered herself. He returned a weary smile.
“I was worried,” she said. “I have to admit I—wait, where is the paladin?”
His smile vanished. “Bronwyn fell.”
The news was a blow, and it was all Nathaliey could do not to stagger back. But fresh hope rose when her eyes fell on the long, straight sword tied to the saddlebags. Its scabbard was gone, and someone had wrapped it in linen strips, but there was no doubt it was the same weapon.
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 19
