by Dave Smeds
Meanwhile, the bootprints, concealed by the dimness of the night, formed one by one along the trail where they had first appeared, except that now they pointed the other direction and sank deeper into the soil. They continued out of the camp, beyond the many watchful eyes. A hundred paces from the perimeter, the sound of strained breathing and the scuffing of soled feet arrived out of nowhere, frightening the shrews in the underbrush and launching an owl into sudden flight. A pair of rythni scouts heard, and worked their way through the plant life toward the source, but, finding nothing there, were mystified.
Crossing a small creek, the stalker and his prize came upon a sturdy battle oeikani well-concealed within a thicket. The beast, with the aplomb of a fine breed meticulously trained, was unperturbed at the sudden appearance of its master beside it, remaining just as silent as it had been all night.
Omril groaned and lowered Wynneth to the ground. He straightened up, grimaced, and rubbed his back. He swayed, as if fighting off an attack of dizziness, and held onto the saddle while he regained his breath. As soon as he had, he gathered his strength one more time, picked up his prisoner, and draped her over the oeikani's withers. He climbed up behind her, settled her into a position from which she would not fall, and rode off toward the west.
XXVI
OMRIL COLLARED WYNNETH and chained her to a post in the middle of a clearing. He permitted a canopy to be erected in order to screen her from the sun, but he forbade walls, so that she would remain under open surveillance at all times. One of his cohorts surrounded her, filling the clearing and much of the adjacent forest, a ring of nearly five hundred armed men through which even the wind could not have infiltrated unannounced.
He sent the other cohort to attack the rebel camp. He did not expect they would find anyone there, but the trail would be fresh. At the very least, it would keep the rebels occupied, and give his men the blood scent.
He gulped down a restorative potion and slept, his pavilion tightly guarded by his personal retinue, while the rest of the small army watched for some sign of the enemy. He did not awaken until late in the afternoon. His concoction banished the debilitation caused by his long maintenance of the invisibility spell. The bags under his eyes shrank away, the shakiness left his limbs; he felt strong. The muscles of his back still ached from the challenge of carrying a grown woman many hundreds of paces, but that was the only lasting evidence of the strain of his feat.
He ate a hearty meal, groomed himself, and listened to the captain of his company render a status report. When perfectly ready he strolled over to visit his captive.
"Your companions have fled. It must be convenient, having thousands of small allies to keep watch for you. I used to have pigeons to help me with such tasks," he said pointedly.
Wynneth avoided eye contact. Her glance wandered toward the sacks of food and the deer carcasses strung up on nearby limbs. She paused as if calculating how far a bit of venison and a dwindling pile of flour would go among so many men. Omril was impressed. No common trull, this one. Another woman would be fretting at her bonds; she was judging how much the pursuit had cost him.
She stared at her feet. "Must I have all these men watching me all the time?" she asked.
"Indeed, yes. And tonight there will be lanterns on every side of you. One never knows when an invisible man may slink inside the camp and steal you away."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"If you prove to be insufficient bait, I will take you south with me. There is a great deal I can learn from your mind. If I take my time I'm sure I can pull it out of you, no matter how well your husband may have schooled you to resist. If I cannot, perhaps I'll send you to Gloroc."
She glared and tugged her hem further down over her knees. Omril chuckled.
****
"My lord," exclaimed his page an hour later. "The rebel prince is at the perimeter."
Omril put away the crystal into which he had been gazing. "And what is he doing there?" he demanded.
"He is… walking forward."
The wizard nodded, strode past the messenger, and emerged from his pavilion. A great knot of his soldiers had gathered on the eastern edge of the clearing. Omril summoned his captain.
"This may be a diversion. See to it that the other directions are carefully watched."
"Yes, my lord."
Omril watched the jumble of men gradually separate. Alemar walked down the corridor between them, pace slow and deliberate, gaze unfocussed. Three of his gauntlet's jewels scintillated, each with its own deep, pure color.
"Kill him!" Omril shouted.
The soldiers paused, as if to say they had just tried that, then set about their task. They thrust and swung their swords, axes, pikes, and knives at the rebel prince. Every point was turned. None came closer than an arm-length away. A deflected ax gashed one of the soldiers in his thigh. Alemar continued on, though he slowed to a turtlelike shuffle. The group paused.
Omril smiled. "Keep attacking until I tell you to stop," he ordered. His cohort hastily obeyed. Meanwhile, the wizard turned to his page. "Go to my tent. Find the small chest with the ruby clasp. Bring me the coil of twine you find within."
The page, eager to please, took a step, but Omril seized him sternly by the shoulder. The boy winced.
"Do not touch the clasp with your fingers. Flip it open with your boot, or the tip of your knife, but do not set living tissue against it."
The boy paled, swallowed a lump, and ran to the pavilion. Omril turned back toward the commotion. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. His men flailed, as ineffectual as ever, but on the other hand, Alemar now hesitated between each step, checking his balance before putting the next foot forward.
He was good, Omril had to admit, or he was able to use the gauntlet more fully than anticipated. The wizard himself would have been challenged to maintain a ward in the face of such an onslaught, though he was certain he would have been able to continue walking normally. But as a rescue attempt, it left much to be desired. More than ever, Omril took this to be the diversion. The princess would be making an appearance at some point.
Pace by pace, Alemar progressed through the ranks of men and steel. Omril's page returned with the twine, which the sorcerer tucked out of sight in his sleeve. When the prince had only twenty strides to go, Omril ordered a halt to the attack.
"Back away," he told his men. "Leave us room."
The soldiers virtually stumbled over themselves doing as he asked, though Omril's tone had been mild. Within moments, only he stood between Alemar and his wife.
"I am disappointed," the sorcerer said. "A good strategist knows when a person is expendable."
Alemar did not respond. Omril doubted that he could without losing the ward. If he dropped it for an instant, he would die. Omril glanced at Wynneth, who had risen to her feet and now waited, biting her lip, for the tableau to be played out. The wizard considered slaying her, now that Alemar was so close, but she was still valuable as a hindrance.
Alemar did not hesitate. He kept walking straight toward Wynneth.
Omril stepped aside.
As soon as the prince passed, the wizard anchored one end of his twine to a root and began running in a circle, unravelling the cord behind him. Alemar reached Wynneth. She embraced him-lightly so as not to disturb his concentration. Omril completed a circle around them and tied the ends together. He laughed as he dropped the knot.
"I have you now, son of Alemar. Forget any plans you have to walk out of here."
Alemar turned and faced him. "I'm in no hurry."
Omril was taken aback. The prince was surely enough of a mage to recognize that, ward or no ward, he was locked inside the circle. Perhaps he thought he could remain where he was, protecting himself and the woman, until his sister launched the second half of the rescue. But Omril would not allow that.
He spoke to the twine, muttering in a sibilant, repetitious language, one that had not sprouted from a human culture. The twine suddenly convulsed. T
he ring shrank a few inches in diameter. He kept talking.
Alemar regarded the shrinking without apparent alarm, though the flickers from the gauntlet increased in frequency and brilliance. Omril sauntered along the outer perimeter, confident and smiling.
The sixth contraction, however, was not as complete as the first five. Omril raised his voice. Once again, the twine twisted and danced over the ground.
This time the circle was the same size as before.
"Your talisman is useless," Alemar said. "I have made an Ultimate Ward."
Omril scoffed. "There is no such thing as an Ultimate Ward. It's a myth. Even if it were true, you couldn't move it from this site. And sooner or later, no matter how good you are, you'll have to sleep."
Omril decided the prince was stalling for time, and redoubled his efforts. His men watched intently. Several of them whispered among themselves. The twine danced to eye-level and down again, snapping like reins in a oeikani race.
Through it all Alemar stood unshaken. Sweat beaded on Omril's brow, but the prince's stayed dry. For the first time, the wizard noticed a strange, high-pitched hum, almost like a song. It seemed to come from the trees on every side of the clearing.
"You're mine now," Alemar said.
Omril gasped. Suddenly his twine sprang outward, over his head, enclosing him within the boundary. He fought a tremendous compulsion to walk forward. Alemar held out his hands.
"No!" the wizard cried.
"Come to me," Alemar demanded.
Omril took a step. He locked his muscles, refusing to take another. He stroked one of the rings on his fingers, trying to focus, trying to set up a ward of his own. The blood in his temples pounded, making him dizzy. How? He was a wizard of the Ril. He was more than a match for this healer prince. He screamed, but the sound from his throat seemed drowned by the chanting from the trees.
The rythni! Somehow the prince had collected the energies of the little people, and had channeled them through himself. He had the strength of the entire forest to draw from-enough for an Ultimate Ward, enough to spin a trap. Omril choked, and took another step forward. He heard his servitors beat uselessly against the ward. Their frantic yells tortured him. Worthless soldiers.
He should have killed the woman while he had the chance.
Alemar's hands loomed. The sorcerer tried to raise his own to brush them away, but he could only get them as high as his waist. With tender, uncompromising finality, the palms closed around his jaws.
****
Wynneth struggled not to be frightened, as Alemar stood next to her, frozen eye to eye with the wizard, hands holding the latter's face. The sun dropped under the horizon, leaving the clearing brightly lit by Motherworld. Still the two combatants did not move. The Dragon's soldiers pounded against the ward, the cacophonous din driving her to tears. Would they never stop?
They had slowed down, she told herself, trying to be objective. They thrust their swords and pikes steadily but half-heartedly. The cohort that had been chasing the rebel band returned empty-handed, and they joined the ranks of awed observers. She hated those eyes, never giving her a moment to herself. That was almost worse than the fear that Alemar, in spite of his performance thus far, would fail.
Suddenly the wizard groaned. His eyelids fluttered like a man in a seizure. His knees sagged, and he sank out of Alemar's grip, hands clawing ineffectually at the prince's clothing. He curled up in a fetal position on the ground and whimpered.
Alemar sucked in air. His pupils contracted, and he gazed out at the armed throng surrounding them. They put up their weapons and gaped in shock. Finally he met Wynneth's worried stare.
"What did you do to him?" she asked, scooting away from Omril.
"I… showed him himself. It was more than he cared to know." Suddenly the prince sighed, and two great teardrops welled at the corners of his eyes. "He was not an evil man. He was just… unfeeling."
Then Alemar seemed to draw a veil over his expression, and when he turned to face Omril's army, he bore himself like a monarch. "You've seen a sample of my power. I give you a choice: fight me, fight my sister who waits in the forest, or leave. If you return straight to Yent, we will leave you unmolested. Refuse now and not a single one of you will live to see the coast."
They did not even murmur among themselves. They turned their eyes toward their captain, who stood just outside the circle of twine, scowling down at what had become of the Dragon's sorcerer.
"What of him?" the captain asked.
"He is mine."
The captain gnawed his lower lip. To return to the garrison without such an important figure would mean heavy discipline. He was a grizzled, barrel-chested man of advancing years, a veteran with the scars to prove it. He tapped his foot in the dust.
"The woods are thick between here and the settled provinces," Alemar commented mildly.
"We keep our arms?" he asked.
"If you wish."
He turned to his men. "Break camp. We're leaving tonight."
****
Alemar accepted the surrender with outward nonchalance, standing within the battle circle as if it were the site of his throne. Wynneth, on the other hand, knew that this was a facade intended to intimidate his audience, and she leaned against him and cried. The soldiers acted on their decision with dispatch. Except for occasional wide-eyed stares, they pretended the rebel prince, his wife, and the defeated wizard no longer existed, as if nothing mattered, in fact, but beginning the march homeward.
A tiny figure buzzed over the clearing and settled on Alemar's shoulder. The latter echoed its song of greeting.
"Half my people fell unconscious from the effort," Hiephora announced.
"He was stronger than I realized," Alemar said, his composure not quite masking his relief. "I'm not sure any single man could have defeated him."
"But you were not alone, beloved," said the rythni queen. "Nor will you be as long as you stay within the forests of Cilendrodel. Rejoice. You have won."
He laughed. Wynneth smiled to see him so triumphant.
"Very well," he said. "The wizard is mine. Let's be off to the south, where the real battle lies."
XXVII
TOREN WOKE SUDDENLY, but like a warrior, gave no outward sign. He opened his eyes to slits. The forest whispered with the echoes of falling dew. He saw a single leaf, high above, caught by the morning sun. Two young wrens were practicing flight, darting from branch to branch. Deena's back pressed warmly against his. Geim and the rest of the party still slumbered, curled on either side of the ashes of last night's campfire. All was serene.
But he was being watched.
He scanned across a log that lay beyond his companions. A beetle clambered through the crevices in the bark toward a knot. It paused, waved its antennae, and abruptly changed direction.
A tiny man squatted behind the knot, peering out at the three humans.
Toren had never seen a rythni before, but Obo had, and the sight of one sparked a warm rush of nostalgia. He was mesmerized by the clean, slim lines of the little man's body-hairless, like a Vanihr, except for the thick blue mop on his head. Without rising Toren called out softly.
"Greetings."
The rythni jumped, stared at Toren for an instant, then ducked around the log faster than a hummingbird could fly.
Toren had expected nothing less, considering the timidity of the race. Even if he had known their language, he knew he could not have convinced the rythni to stay.
Geim, Deena, and the others lifted their heads and peered about with sleep-encrusted eyes.
"We had a visitor," Toren said, and told them what had just happened. "It's good news. Obo told me that rythni are seldom reported in western Cilendrodel. We must be getting close to our destination."
"Good," Geim grumbled. His mood had soured as soon as they had descended out of the Syril Mountains, out of the cool mountain air into the muggy climate of Cilendrodel in summer. "Maybe we can find a place that serves a decent meal soon."
&
nbsp; ****
Geim's hopes materialized by midday. They found an inn, a tiny establishment in an equally tiny community nestled at the edge of a grove of silk trees.
Toren and his group were dressed in the manner of the traders of the foothills of the Syril, who often arrived during the season to barter for silk. The innkeeper regarded the tall, blond, beardless visages of the two Vanihr with a quizzical frown, but he seemed satisfied with the others. His expression softened even more when Deena acted as the spokesperson. She gave him the standard story, that they were on their way to trade with quarn merchants near Garthmorron.
The innkeeper called to his wife, who hefted her massive body out of a chair and began clattering about in the kitchen. Her husband wiped down one of the common room's two tables and gestured for his guests to sit.
"That's bad country to be making for right now," he said.
"Oh? Why?"
"There was a rebel uprising at the governor's fortress near Old Stump three months back. They killed Lord Puriel, and tore down his castle. The Dragon sent troops to burn down the village, and now the whole province is in open revolt. And now some incredible news has come from the north."
"Which is?"
"Alemar, the Elandri prince, defeated Gloroc's sorcerer in single combat, and kept two cohorts of men at bay while he did it. The cohorts, when they returned south and saw that the countryside had risen up, joined the revolt."
"Are you sure?" Deena asked. She and the others masked their reactions, not knowing where the loyalties of the innkeeper lay.
"Am I sure?" he said animatedly. "I wish I weren't. I can just see the Dragon's armies storming through our forests, once they can be pulled from the New Kingdoms or the Eastern Deserts. The prince will need all the power he can get." He spat in a porcelain spittoon. "Isn't it be something, though?" he said in a more subdued tone. "Imagine, a wizard of the Ril, whipped like a baby. That Alemar, he was born and raised in Cilendrodel. It's time one of our own kicked the Dragon in his hind end."
