“Who are you?” Mansel demanded.
“King’s soldiers,” said a tall man with thick, wavy hair. “And you?”
“We’re just travelers,” Zollin said, riding up beside his friend. “Actually, I’m a magician. I’ll do a few tricks if you’ll share your supper?”
“And who’s he?” the soldier wanted to know, pointing at Mansel, who was glaring at each of the soldiers in turn.
“Oh, he’s just riding guard with me. It’s not very safe to travel alone these days,” Zollin explained, trying to keep his tone light.
“I don’t like him,” said one of the other soldiers.
“Just ignore him,” Zollin said. “He has a surly nature. No idea how to have fun, that one.”
Zollin threw his hand up and sent a flaming ball of light shooting sparks in every direction. It sailed through the air and then disappeared like a firework.
“What do you say, fellas? You in the mood for some fun?” Zollin said, trying to imitate the traveling performers he’d seen as a child.
“No,” said the soldier with thick hair. “We aren’t in the mood for fun. Jens, go see if they’re alone.”
“Yes sir,” said one of the other soldiers, running into the darkness behind them.
“There’s no one back there but our servant Eustice,” Zollin explained. “We’ll move on if you’re aren’t interested in a night you’ll never forget. There’s no need to get hostile.”
“They’ve got horses,” the soldier named Jens called.
“Bring them forward,” the wavy haired soldier shouted.
“Really, there’s no need for this,” Zollin said.
“Shut it and get down off those horses,” the soldier demanded.
“Fine,” Zollin said. “They’re all yours, Mansel.”
The big warrior drew his sword and spurred his horse forward instantly. The sword that Zollin had crafted gleamed in the firelight. It was a simple weapon, with only the Veppra stone decorating it. Still, it looked like a fabled weapon from a bard’s song. At first the soldiers seemed captivated by it, then it fell on the closest man, slicing through his neck and raining an arc of blood that landed sputtering in the flames.
The soldiers were shocked into action, but it was too late for the next man, who fell under Zollin’s horse and was trampled. Three soldiers ran toward Zollin, but he batted them away with a wave of magic so hard they were knocked unconscious.
Mansel jumped from his horse and whirled into action. Zollin watched his friend fight with a sense of awe. Mansel was big—easily a head taller than Zollin—and his frame was so muscular it was almost bulky. Zollin rarely saw Mansel move quickly, but with a sword in his hand Mansel was all precision, grace, and speed. He moved almost too quickly to keep up with. The soldiers fell before him so easily it was almost laughable, but their screams made the spectacle all too real.
Mansel slashed the first soldier before the man could even raise his sword. The blade ripped through the thick padded doublet easily, tracing a crimson line down the man’s chest and stomach from one shoulder to the opposite hip. The next soldier raised his sword, but Mansel’s flashed under the upturned blade and severed the man’s arm at the elbow, somehow cleaving through the joint and avoiding getting lodged in the bone.
The third soldier Mansel engaged had just enough time to swing his own weapon in a level arc that would have ripped out Mansel’s throat, but the big warrior went down on one knee, letting the blade pass harmlessly over his head while in turn he rammed his own sword straight into the soldier’s stomach. The soldier froze in pain and shock, but Mansel jerked the weapon free and stood up. He was immediately set upon by two soldiers at once, but he caught both of their blades on his own, then kicked the legs out from under the closest soldier and shoved the other backwards. He drove his blade down into the chest of the fallen man, killing him instantly, then spun, jerking his sword free of the first man’s body and swinging it in a low arc that cut cleanly through the second man’s leg at the thigh.
Zollin was surprised to see the damage the big sword could do. He had honed it to a razor’s edge, but the weight and strength of the blade made it even more deadly, strong enough to sever bone and flesh alike.
The rest of the soldiers fell back. There were four in the firelight, but the soldier sent to check on Eustice had not returned. Mansel stalked toward the last four, who threw down their weapons, all except the soldier with the wavy hair. He drew a large sword and stepped forward. Mansel feinted to the left then attacked to the right, but the soldier was ready. He brought his blade up to deflect Mansel’s blow, but the impact staggered the soldier. He was a trained swordsman, but he was unprepared for Mansel’s brute power. He tried to set his feet as Mansel’s next blow came down—it was an overhanded arc, like a man chopping wood. The soldier raised his sword and the two blades met with a ringing clash that caused sparks, and the soldier was knocked off his feet.
“We need some of them alive,” Zollin called out to his friend.
“Not this one,” Mansel snarled.
The soldier was on his knees, swinging his blade at Mansel’s hip, but the young warrior caught the blade with his own, then smashed the hilt of his sword into the soldier’s face. Blood and teeth flew forward as the man’s head snapped back. The soldier dropped his sword and fell on the ground, senseless.
“That’s enough, Mansel,” Zollin said, sliding down from the saddle.
“Not for the damage they’ve done,” Mansel replied coldly. He was turning on the other soldiers, who were cowering in fear now.
“Hold it right there, or your man dies,” came a voice from the darkness.
The soldier named Jens came walking back into the firelight with Eustice in front of him, a blade at the mute servant’s throat.
“I’ll kill him,” said the soldier. “Throw down your weapons or your man dies.”
Zollin concentrated on the blade the soldier had near Eustice’s throat. The handle began to grow hot and Zollin watched the soldier’s eyes grow round with surprise. Then he shouted and dropped the blade, shoving Eustice toward Zollin before running away. Mansel, like a dog caught up in the madness of battle, went chasing after him.
“This is turning into a real mess,” Zollin said. “Are you okay?”
Eustice nodded.
“Tell me what is going on with this army,” Zollin demanded of the remaining soldiers.
Before they could answer, they heard the soldier Jens screaming in pain as Mansel killed him. The soldiers all started talking at once.
“Shut up,” Zollin shouted. “I can’t understand all your babbling. You,” he pointed to the closest soldier, “start talking.”
“We’re the rear guard,” said the man. “We’re marching on Osla.”
“Aren’t you from Osla?”
“Yes, but the wizard is trying to taking over.”
“The wizard from the Torr, Offendorl?”
“I think that’s his name,” said the soldier.
“It is!” said another. “I heard someone call him that.”
“And you are going to do what?” Zollin asked.
“We’re taking back our kingdom,” the first soldier said. “We won’t just let some wizard take it from us.”
“But you’ll let King Zorlan?”
“He’s leading the armies, but he isn’t going to take the throne. King Belphan has sons.”
“They’re children,” Zollin said. “And you’re all fools. Are you the ones burning and looting the villages?”
“Not all of them,” the soldier said. “There’s other groups been taking what they want too.”
Zollin shook his head and turned away as Mansel came back into the firelight. His friend went straight to his horse and mounted.
“You find out what you need to know?” Mansel asked.
“Yes,” Zollin said. Then he turned to Eustice. “Ride along the coast until you find us, okay? We’ll wait for you once we make sure Nycoll is safe.”
&nbs
p; Eustice nodded and then Zollin swung up into his own saddle.
“Let’s go, there’s no time to waste,” he said.
Mansel looked at him appreciatively and the both whipped their horses into a gallop.
Chapter 15
Zollin and Mansel rode fast. Zollin let his magic flow out in front of them. Even though it was dark and hard to see, he could sense the contours of the terrain. They rode hard all through the night, only pausing an hour before dawn to walk the horses. They were exhausted—especially the horses—and Zollin knew they needed help to keep moving.
“We aren’t far from Nycoll’s cottage,” Mansel said. “Maybe an hour at most.”
“Let’s just keep moving then,” Zollin said, but as they traveled he inspected every weed and flower, looking desperately for something that might help them. He knew that some plants had rejuvenating powers. They had just remounted their horses when he spotted a small clump of brightly colored weeds.
“Wait a second,” Zollin said, jumping off his horse.
His whole body ached. His stomach felt like it was tied in a knot, but his bowels felt loose, almost watery. His joints hurt and his head was a dizzy. His eyes felt like they had sand in them, and his mouth seemed to be producing a sticky, pasty muck instead of saliva. He snatched up the handful of weeds and climbed back into the saddle, ignoring the pain and his body’s desperate cry for sleep. He let his horse follow Mansel’s while he studied the weeds. He sensed both strength and danger in the plants. He knew he couldn’t consume them, that was the first rule of woodsmanship—never eat anything you aren’t sure won’t kill you.
Still, he could feel a vibrant power in the small plants. It was like a spark, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but with the power to create something significant under the right circumstances. He let his magic flow into the weed and discovered what felt like a bubble. It was like a ripe piece of fruit, almost flowing with sweet, succulent juices. He squeezed the bubble with his magic and it burst almost instantly, filling his physical body with a sense of strength and energy he didn’t think he’d ever felt before. It was like waking up from a long sleep, totally refreshed and energized. His stomach no longer felt sick, his joints didn’t hurt. He looked up and realized he wasn’t fighting his eyelids to keep them open.
“Mansel,” he said, urging his horse forward. “This is amazing. Here, hold this,” he said, handing one of the little weeds to his friend.”
“Why?” Mansel asked, his body drooping and even his voice sounding weak.
“Just trust me.”
Zollin let his magic flow into Mansel first, and then into the weed. He popped the magic bubble and watched his friend’s shoulders suddenly straighten.
“What the hell did you do to me?” he asked.
“How do you feel?” Zollin said.
“Amazing. I feel like I could run all day long.”
“Awesome,” Zollin said. “Let me try it with the horses.”
In a matter of moments the horses were galloping again, this time with a wild sense of abandon. They were like children racing through a field to see who was the fastest.
It took them almost twenty minutes to slow their pace, and then it was only because they saw smoke in the distance. They hadn’t seen the army yet, which meant the group they had run into the night before were stragglers, probably falling back so that they could pillage at will. Still, the smoke in the distance was not a good sign. The continued forward at a fast pace, but were more careful.
It took several minutes to reach the source of the smoke, but when Mansel saw it he shouted a gut-wrenching cry that made Zollin’s heart ache. He recognized the note of grief in his friend’s voice.
“No!” Mansel shouted. “The bloody bastards,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “Oh, no, no, no.”
He slid down from the saddle and staggered forward toward the smoking ruin of Nycoll’s cottage. The stone-lined well was caved in, the yard trampled. Only the great oak tree in the yard stood untouched.
“No!” Mansel cried as tears streamed down his face.
Zollin dismounted and tied their horses to the tree, and then went to his friend, who was shaking with silent sobs. He put his hand on Mansel’s shoulder, unsure of what to say. The cottage had collapsed inward and the fire had been burning a long time. Very little was left but ash and charred foundation stones.
Zollin let his magic flow over the ruined house. He took his time searching for any sign of Nycoll, but there was no indication that she had died in the fire. So he let his magic flow out in a greater circle, into the tall weeds and down the hard-packed dirt path that led to the ocean. There was a wooden dock on the rocky shore, but no boat. Zollin was just about to turn his attention elsewhere when he noticed something hidden in the water. He probed further, reaching with his magic into the water, even though he was afraid of what might happen. There was a person in the water, hiding under the wooden dock.
“Mansel,” Zollin said. “There’s someone in the water.”
He helped his friend to stand up, then they ran around the ruined cottage and down the path. Zollin could feel the hope pouring off Mansel in waves, like heat radiating from a fire.
“Is it Nycoll?” Mansel asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Nycoll!” he shouted. “Are you there? Nycoll?”
They reached the wooden dock and Mansel jumped into the water. There was splashing and then Zollin heard his friend crying.
“Is she okay?” Zollin called out.
“Help me, Zollin. She’s tied to the piling. I can’t get her loose.”
Zollin let his magic flow into the dock and water. He found the rope and it burst apart. “Okay, I’ve got her. I’ve got you, Nycoll. You’re going to be okay.”
The water just steps from the shore was deep and Mansel struggled to pull the unconscious woman from under the deck. Zollin levitated them both up onto the dock, then let his magic pour into the woman. Her body was in shock. Even through the magic Zollin could feel that she was near freezing. She had been in the water too long. Her tongue was swollen and she was dehydrated. The rope had rubbed her skin raw where it had held her out of the water through the night.
“Is she alive, Zollin?” Mansel asked.
“Yes, I can help her. I just need a little time.”
Zollin knelt on the dock beside Nycoll, letting his magic flow into her. He began to warm her body, healing the effects of hours spent in the seawater. “She needs fresh water, Mansel. Go get the canteens.”
Mansel dashed away as Zollin continued to inspect every facet of Nycoll’s health. She was well—she only needed time and nourishment. Mansel returned and they lifted her head and dribbled water into her mouth. After a few moments she began to come around. Her eyes fluttered open and she worked her mouth, trying to speak.
“It’s okay,” Mansel said, tears streaking down his face. “You’re okay now.”
“Mansel?” she asked, uncertain.
“Yes, it’s me. You’re safe now.”
“They burned the cottage,” she said. “They burned everything.”
“I know,” he said gently.
She was remembering the events slowly. Her eyes opened wider. “I hid under the dock but I couldn’t untie the ropes. I couldn’t get free.”
“I know,” Mansel said soothingly. “I know it. But you’re safe now.”
“How did you find me?”
“Zollin found you,” he said.
She glanced over at Zollin. “Your friend?” she said. “The wizard you told me about?”
“Yes,” Mansel said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“You saved me. You came back for me.”
“I promised you I would.”
“Give her more water,” Zollin told Mansel. “Then we should move her someplace more comfortable.”
Mansel dribbled more water into her mouth. She drank it eagerly, then closed her eyes.
“Is she okay?” Mansel asked.
“She will be,” Zollin said. “She’s been through a lot.”
“Can’t you heal her?”
“I have,” Zollin said. “I’ve taken care of the physical things. She just needs rest.”
“What about the weeds, the ones you found on the road? Couldn’t those help her?”
“I think it’s best if she sleeps,” Zollin said. “We aren’t in a hurry anymore. She’ll be fine after she rests. We could all use a rest.”
“Okay,” Mansel said.
He was just getting up to his feet when the trident struck. It was a heavy, brass spear with three separate points. It flew and landed solidly in Mansel’s thigh, driving him to the ground, the shock and pain knocking the big warrior unconscious.
Zollin immediately raised a magical shield around himself, Nycoll, and Mansel. He scrambled back, looking for the threat, and saw almost a dozen heavily bearded men rising out of the water. They all had tridents and were staring at him balefully.
Anger erupted in Zollin and he lashed out, sending a stream of molten magical energy at the mermen, who disappeared below the surface of the water. Then one by one they popped up, throwing their tridents with a strength and accuracy that was hard for Zollin to believe. His magical shield held, but each blow came with such force that he was pushed backward.
He used his magic to levitate Nycoll and Mansel away from the dock. He withdrew from the water’s edge and the bombardment of heavy spears ceased. He was breathing hard when he finally settled by the large oak tree where their horses were tied. Mansel was unconscious, his leg bleeding heavily. Zollin pulled the trident free and then put both his hands on his friend’s leg, using pressure to slow the bleeding.
“I hate the ocean,” Zollin said from between clenched teeth.
He let his magic flow out toward the shore, being careful not to touch the water. It seemed he wasn’t welcome in the ocean. Luckily, there was nothing near the shore—no sign that the strange looking mermen wanted to continue the confrontation.
Zollin turned his attention back to Mansel, letting his magic flow into his friend’s leg. The bone was broken and a large blood vessel severed. He repaired the damaged blood vessel first and then mended the torn flesh to stop the bleeding. Mansel’s leg looked fine, but the bone was still broken. It took Zollin several minutes to locate all the tiny shards of bone and mend everything back together. When he was finished, Mansel seemed to be resting easy, so Zollin felt he could get up and prepare their shelter. But when he stood up the world seemed to spin and tilt off balance. He staggered, closing his eyes and holding tightly to the tree until the wave of dizziness passed. Then he got some food out of his pack and began to eat. All the symptoms from lack of sleep returned with a vengeance. It was all Zollin could do to lay out blankets and levitate Mansel and Nycoll onto them. The big oak gave them ample shade, and once he had everything unpacked and near to hand, he rolled himself in his cloak and fell asleep.
Five Kingdoms: Book 05 - Fierce Loyalty Page 16
