by Dave Smeds
Geim nudged him. "You're not going to start this nonsense again, are you?"
Toren scowled, and took a bite.
"You see?" Deena said encouragingly. "When I was a child my mother fed us nioc every day. She taught me how to prepare it a dozen different ways."
He grimaced as he swallowed. "That must be why your skin is so pale."
"Try the mutton, then. These spices are delicious."
"I'd really prefer some snake," Toren said, but he relented and began eating everything. It filled his belly with a soothing heat, and it did curb his hunger. However, he could not muster the enthusiasm Geim and Deena were displaying.
Half an hour later, his stomach suddenly spasmed. The mayor quickly directed him toward the rear door. He staggered away and, once free of the shame of observation, he lost the meal.
I will never eat sinner's food again, he vowed.
When he didn't return, Geim came to find him. Toren was leaning against the outhouse, letting the cool twilight air calm the fierce heat in his neck and cheeks.
"You don't look like much of a dragon killer," Geim said.
"I'm not," Toren said stiffly.
"Don't be embarrassed. Strange food often does this. You'll adjust."
"Did it ever happen to you?"
"Of course. My first meals in three different ports. But that was when I was younger. Now I can eat anything."
"Then I look forward to my old age," Toren quipped.
"Come back inside," Geim suggested. "Perhaps if you ate bread only…"
"I'm not hungry anymore," Toren said, but he followed Geim inside, no longer nauseated. The tavern girl tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sympathetic grin as he passed. He blushed. His throat stung. He still felt queasy. A warrior should not have to feel so miserable in front of women.
Korv reassured him, and tore off a quarter loaf of pale brown bread. More sin, but what did it matter? Toren nibbled at it. He found it much lighter than the dense cakes of his homeland, and though the flour tasted of field grains rather than seeds and nuts, it went down easily. He supplemented it with ale, a light, pleasant brew, the first thing he had genuinely liked all evening. It cut the sour film at the back of his mouth.
A small, tousled head suddenly appeared over the table's edge. A young boy stared at Toren and Geim with bright, wide eyes.
The mayor chuckled and patted the child on the head. "My grandson, Pell. I apologize. He's never seen Vanihr before."
Toren's gaze lingered on his awed observer. "I have a boy your age," he told him, suddenly guilty. He had not thought of Rhi all day.
Made bold by the comment, Pell blurted, "Is it true that in your country, you sleep hanging from trees?"
Toren smiled. "Sometimes." But clearly the boy had the wrong idea. How to explain? He turned to Geim. "Do they have a word for immei?"
Geim told Deena the term. She translated it for Pell.
"Oh," Pell said, crestfallen. "Hammocks. We have those."
Toren could not face such disappointment. "One of my uncles was stolen from one by a mooncat when he was a baby," he added.
"Really?" Pell gasped. "Did he die?"
"No. Mooncats sometimes catch prey and don't make the kill until they get hungry. My grandfather found him in time."
Pell produced a dozen eager questions about mooncats almost before he took another breath. Toren patiently answered them, assisted by Deena when his vocabulary fell short. A pair of intrigued adult patrons shifted nearer the table. The topic evolved to other points. By the time the second pitcher of ale was empty, Toren felt a little less out of place.
He breathed thanks that his ancestors could not see him now.
****
Toren endured Deena's appraisal of his new clothing. He had chosen a peasant shirt, vest, and winter trousers, though, as she quickly informed him, in the warming weather the folk of Irigion would be shifting to kilts. He had also picked muted, neutral colors, though local fashion favored brighter tones.
"It will do," she muttered, obviously dissatisfied, but unwilling to argue further. Geim had arrived with the oeikani.
The animals shuffled near the entrance to the inn. Three bore saddles, the fourth complained about its heavy load of fresh supplies. Toren caught their scent on the late morning breeze. He wrinkled his nose.
Deena stepped forward and stroked her beast's nose. The creature did not seem to mind.
"These things are truly tame?" he asked.
"Yes. The doe you'll be riding is especially well-behaved."
Deer were meant for hunting, not transportation, Toren believed. No matter how big the species. He examined his from its long, flowing mane to the tuft of hair at the end of its whiplike tail, and down to its cloven hooves.
Geim showed him how to mount.
"Just hold on to the saddle horn," Geim said. "The oeikani will do the rest. You'll get used to it in no time. How does it feel?"
Toren felt much too high, but he was a modhiv. "Fine," he said too quickly.
Geim chuckled, mounted, and lashed Toren's reins to the back of his saddle. Deena took the pack animal's reins.
Mayor Korv came to bid the them farewell. They thanked him for his hospitality, and he in turn complimented them on a good evening of tales of distant lands. His final words were more subdued.
"There was a visitor at the portal earlier this month. He was only seen once, but I thought you should know. There's not much reason for a stranger to pass by the cairn by chance."
"What did he look like?" Deena asked.
"Tall and gaunt. Dark clothing. The shepherd only saw him briefly, from a distance."
Toren felt the beginning of an itch somewhere between his ears.
They began riding. Toren clenched the horn and tried to let his body roll with the oeikani's motion, as he had been instructed. Though the animals strode at a leisurely pace, they reached the outskirts of the town amazingly fast. It was, Toren had to admit, a convenient way to cover distance without taking a single pace.
Little Pell ran to the edge of the village and waved them on their way.
****
The road climbed into foothills. Pastures evolved into fields of wild grass and brambles. The trees thickened. Toren had not known this type of tree in the wood-oaks, Deena called them. The modhiv sighed as the boughs interlaced overhead, offering surcease from the afternoon sun; the shade made him feel at home. Oak wasp larvae hopped inside their tiny egg cases, bouncing across the forest floor in their struggle to escape; their birthing noise often resembled the babbling of a brook or loud whispers of raindrops striking brittle, fallen leaves.
The pleasantness of his surroundings made the itch in his head all the more noticeable.
"We're in danger," Toren said.
Geim and Deena reined up. "As with the cannibals?" the northern Vanihr asked.
"Yes. We should go another way."
Geim gestured toward the right. There was no road there, but the brush and trees left plenty of passage for the oeikani. "How about that way?"
"Perhaps. I won't know until we try it."
****
Hadradril frowned. His prey had left the road. He abandoned the ambush point he had selected, climbed back onto his oeikani, and parallelled the detour.
****
"No good," Toren said. He stared about. The trees here stood widely spaced, the ground free of brush as if a fire had come a few years before to clear the undergrowth. The sensation of danger pulsed only faintly, but it was growing stronger once again.
"You're certain?" Geim asked.
"Yes."
"I don't know what to do," Geim muttered. "I doubt Mayor Korv would have men to spare as an escort, and we must go on."
"Perhaps we could go back to Talitha for a few days," Toren said, aware that he sounded overly eager.
Geim shook his head. "Portals only go one way. To return to Talitha, we'd have to travel by ship, as Deena, Ivayer, and I did when we came south in search of you."
&nbs
p; Toren was not sure which bothered him more, the premonition, or the realization that his home was now inconceivably far away.
"Let's go back to the road," Geim said. "If you still sense a problem, we'll go back to Greenfield for the night."
****
Hadradril's expression blackened. The pulse in his talisman of pursuit slowed and weakened. They had turned away again. Twice could not be chance.
The quarry had enough control over his power to sense a threat. Yet, surely, such an undisciplined talent could be thwarted. The wizard pulled a thin cape from his saddle bags, and draped it over himself. He pulled a blanket of the same material out and covered his oeikani's withers. He whispered the words of activation.
A simple spell, but it would mask his presence. His prey would have to consciously know what to do to circumvent it. Hadradril headed back to his original ambush point.
****
The itch faded as Toren and his companions approached the road, then vanished altogether. He frowned. He did not trust the sudden way it had stopped. It seemed too convenient.
Yet, perhaps they had fooled whoever threatened them, and were now out of danger. When they reached the road, Geim decided they should continue in their original direction. Toren reluctantly agreed. The day waned; they could not remain indecisive.
The route grew rougher, the ruts of spring rains not yet worn down in this rarely travelled region. In one place a tree had fallen over part of the road. Cover abounded on either side-too much. Toren keened his extra sense, and felt nothing.
Late in the afternoon, as they rose over a small hillock, he assembled his blowgun and laid it across his thighs.
At the base of the hillock, the feeling came on him like fire. He twisted.
An arrow grazed his side.
Only then could he sense how magic had been foiling his ability. Out of a thicket emerged a gaunt figure in embroidered silk riding gear, bow in hand, a plain grey cloak on his shoulders.
Geim threw his net. It raced straight toward Hadradril. The wizard barely had time to drop his bow before he was felled.
Toren, Deena, and Geim jumped out of their saddles, the latter drawing his sword as he dropped. Toren moved to approach the thicket from the left, Geim from the right, while Deena took the reins of the oeikani.
The men made it four or five steps. Then, no matter how hard they struggled, their feet would not leave the road. They were anchored. Toren noticed that the dust on which they stood was strangely colored.
"Just a little trick I learned in my apprentice days," the wizard said blithely, and stood up. He twirled the net in front of him. "Now this is a clever toy. I should make one of my own some time."
Despite his banter, the wizard could not conceal his spellcasting from Toren. A waver in the air led from Hadradril to the colored dust. Not only did his feet refuse to budge, but his limbs grew leaden and useless. Deena, who had been trying to reach the bow in her saddle, lowered her arm. Geim's sword point dropped. Toren's hand, which had been reaching toward the pouch of darts on his belt, stopped.
Hadradril picked up his bow and nocked a fresh arrow. He chuckled. "That's better," he said, and aimed at the modhiv.
He drew back the bowstring with tortoiselike slowness. Toren frowned at the snail's pace of the wizard's movements, then the light of realization dawned. The immobilization spell consumed nearly all the sorcerer's power and concentration. Hadradril could not afford to devote much attention to his physical movements.
The filament of energy binding Toren's arms resembled a rope. And if he disturbed the knot-right there-just so…
Suddenly the paralysis disappeared. He loaded a dart, lifted his blowgun, and fired.
The missile struck Hadradril in the chest. He cried out, released the arrow, clutched his chest, dropped the bow. The shaft came at Toren too fast for him to dodge it, but the wizard's aim had been skewed just enough. The point sliced the edge of one of his sleeves and continued past.
"Quick!" Geim shouted. "Get him!"
Geim charged forward and slashed at Hadradril's neck. The sword stopped a finger's breadth away from the skin. Sparks scattered in every direction. Undaunted, Geim continued to hack.
For Toren's eyes, the ward radiated angry, red, resistant tones. He considered trying to negate it, but had no idea how. Deena shoved a sword into his hand. Geim had the right idea-beat at the barrier with all their might. Keep Hadradril occupied, and the poison would do the rest.
Toren had never used a sword, but there was no need for finesse. He chopped at the wizard's legs, while Geim swung at the upper body. Deena, armed with a knife, stood poised to assist, should there be room for her.
****
Hadradril staggered. He tugged the dart from his chest, but the pain only intensified. He had underestimated his victim. His life was dribbling away.
Take him with me, was his foremost thought. But it was all he could do to maintain the ward. The venom spread, dulling his senses. He knew no sorcery to counteract it. Hands trembling, he reached back to his quiver, bent down and retrieved his bow. One of the blades had nearly cut through the ward. He winced. He had to be careful, move very slowly.
He drew back the arrow, pointed it at the adept, and let go. Thanks to his sluggish movement, the target anticipated him and simply stepped out of the way.
He withdrew another arrow. The result was the same.
Hadradril moaned. His only consolation was that the other sorcerers of the Ril would not see him fall. He shuddered, knees threatening to buckle. His chest burned. Spots flickered in front of his eyes.
Dying. Only one chance, one remote chance, to fulfill his mission. Once he dropped the ward, he could cast the spell in an instant.
****
Each impact sent numbing tingles up the sword. The weapon threatened to fall out of Toren's grip. Tiny, brief fires flickered in the twigs at their feet, ignited by the sparks.
Hadradril emitted a weak, strangled cry, perhaps a word. The ward disintegrated with a sudden snap of wind.
Geim chopped off the wizard's head.
Toren set down his sword, suddenly very weary. The head rolled to a stop. The body crumpled to the ground. Geim wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped back. "You're good with that blowgun," he told Toren.
They heard an odd hissing. Geim stared in outrage as his sword began to sizzle and dissolve. Likewise, smoke rose from the mulch near both parts of the wizard's neck, and from Toren's vest, which had been splattered during the decapitation.
"Take it off!" Deena shouted at Toren. The modhiv was already moving. He threw the vest off just before the fabric burned through.
"The bastard!" Geim growled. "He put a spell on his blood. This was my best blade." He shook it, wiped it on the corpse's clothing, but the metal still bubbled. The fine polished edges warped into ragged, rusted contours.
A foul odor rose from the discarded piece of clothing. Toren watched it being destroyed with a pensive stare.
"Oh, well," Deena said. "You didn't like that vest, anyway."
Regrettably the acid blood was having no effect on the sorcerer's own flesh, though the necklace that had been around his neck fumed and decomposed.
Toren caught his breath. He pointed out the necklace, lying in the twigs near the head. Geim lifted it up with the tip of his afflicted sword. It possessed a single blue gem. Evidently it was still able to draw a small amount of energy from the dead man, because it pulsed with faint but rapid flashes. Geim scowled, and held the jewel closer to Toren.
The flashes sped up, until they were nearly a constant glow. When Geim removed the gem from Toren's immediate vicinity, the flashes slowed down.
"Like Ivayer's bracelet," Toren said.
"A talisman of pursuit," Geim said. "This was no random attack. He was looking for you."
XIII
ALEMAR DREAMED OF THE Eastern Deserts. He wandered a phantom landscape of scoured, eroded channels, searching for water, and found only barren sand and ossified lay
ers of salt. The voice of his teacher, Gast, echoed from stratified, sun-bleached cliffsides, warning him that he had let his flasks run low, that unless he filled them soon, he would perish of thirst. But though he investigated every spring and river bed, his throat remained parched. The oases had been drained.
He awoke with a foul, bilious aftertaste at the back of his throat. His head swam, unable to still the chaotic remnants of his dreams. With extreme effort, he focussed on the walls of his grandfather's cottage: tightly knit logs, mortared with clay. A griddle sizzled as Wynneth dropped a bit of pork fat onto it. She sorted through a clutch of brush hen's eggs. Cosufier snored in the upper bunk.
No desert here. But a gnawing emptiness ate away at his insides, like the thirst of the night's visions. He wiped a feverish sudor from his upper lip.
Wynneth handed him a cup of water. He sipped gratefully. She tenderly brushed his cheek, her glance drawing his. He shook his head. She nodded.
There was no need for talk. She understood the loss he felt. She knew that he would tell her as soon as there was a change. In the meantime, she would nurture him. Of all the people he had known, she was the one who knew when to draw him out, and when to leave him to his private thoughts. It was why he had married her, when he could have had a lady of greater beauty, higher station, or more vivaciousness. They were twinned in ways that he and his sister were not.
"Breakfast will be ready soon," she said. She kissed him and returned to the task.
He groaned as he sat up. "Where's Elenya?"
"Outside."
****
The jays screeched, fighting in the treetops, knocking loose the dew. The drops beat out a cadence against the leaves and the ground as they fell. Alemar stepped onto the porch, head still leaden and painful. He peered through the thinning mist. Elenya was practicing her swordcraft near a flat stump fifty paces away.
