Silently I followed her out the back door into the yard. Smedda waited there—and to my great shock, she had thrown on a set of light padded armor, and in her hands was a blunted training spear of the same kind as Mag’s.
“That looks good in your hands,” said Smedda, nodding towards Mag’s weapon.
“It feels … familiar,” said Mag.
“I thought you said you had never seen such a weapon before,” said Smedda.
“Not that I remember,” said Mag. “Yet holding this one feels like embracing an old friend.”
Smedda nodded slowly. “I have seen such things before, though rarely. Come. Let us spar, and we shall see what you can do with it.”
A pit formed in my stomach. “I am not sure that is wise,” I said at once, stepping between the two of them. “Mayhap you should let me face off against Mag.” Thoughts raced through my mind of the unimaginable wrath we would bring down on ourselves if Mag were to injure the king of Dulmun’s personal bladesmith.
“Afraid she will hurt me, are you?” said Smedda, and she laughed. “Do not be a fool. You know your friend better than I do, but even I know that that blade will not kiss my skin unless she means it to—and she does not mean it to. Do you, girl?”
“I swear I will do you no harm,” said Mag solemnly, gripping the spear in both hands and taking a wide stance. Then she smirked. “No lasting harm, that is.”
“That is the spirit,” said Smedda, grinning. “Now, let me see what you can—”
And then suddenly she was on her back, the tip of Mag’s spear a fingersbreadth away from her throat.
“What—” gasped Smedda. Her face scrunched up, for all the world as though she was searching for a distant memory. “You tripped me.”
“Yes,” said Mag. She put up her spear and lowered a hand to help Smedda rise. “Your reaction almost saved you, but it was just a tad too slow.”
“A tad?” said Smedda, frowning. “I did not even know what had happened until it was done.”
“Is the spear all right?” I said, leaning forwards and peering at it.
“You stop that,” said Smedda, glaring at me and holding up a finger, like a grandmother scolding her progeny. “No warrior can fight while worrying about the state of the blade in their hands. No matter a weapon’s value, no matter its heritage, when you fight with it, it has only one purpose: to be a tool with which you enact your will.” She turned back to Mag. “If you would indulge me: I would like to try attacking you and see how you defend yourself. One of the great strengths of a spontoon is its use for protection as well as for aggression.”
“Of course,” said Mag. “Whenever you wish.”
“First,” said Smedda, going to the side of the yard. From the wall she pulled a battered practice shield, tossing it to Mag. “Use that. It is imperfectly balanced, but it should serve for this purpose.”
Mag began to slip her left arm through the straps—and Smedda struck before she was finished. But even the moment’s distraction did not matter. Mag’s shield was like a wall guarding her from harm, and wherever it could not protect her, the haft of the spear came in to block Smedda’s swipes and turn her jabs. Mag danced around Smedda’s every blow, barely even stepping back to avoid them.
I felt then, as I would go on to feel many, many times, the sheer awe of seeing Mag with that spear in her hand. She had already been a peerless warrior in my estimation. But in that moment—though I did not quite know it—she was taking her first steps on the road that would turn her into a legend.
After a short while of sparring, Mag finally turned the tables. Rather than blocking Smedda’s thrust, she caught the spear between her own and the shield, and then twisted to flip it out of Smedda’s hands. Finally, almost as an afterthought, she flipped the spear around and jabbed the butt of it hard into Smedda’s belly. All Smedda’s breath left her in a rush, and she fell on her rear on the sandy yard.
“My apologies,” said Mag. “Instinct took over. You understand, of course.”
“Of course,” said Smedda ruefully, holding up a hand for Mag to help her again. “Well, that settles it. You have to buy that spear.”
“What?” I said. “She could not possibly afford it. You said your prices—”
“Are considerable,” said Smedda. “And I cannot give you the spear for free. I have a reputation to uphold, and no warrior values a weapon they did not pay for—in gold, or in blood.”
“I would value this spear,” said Mag fervently.
Smedda grinned. “I imagine that is true. It belongs with you, and you with it. Therefore I will let you buy it for two hundreds of weights.”
Even as my guts turned a somersault, Mag said, “Done.”
“Mag!” I said. “That is more than either of us will earn in a year. If you paid for nothing else, if you avoided all costs for—”
“I may be green, but hardly any more so than you. I know full well what I am doing.” Mag sighed and removed her shield, then held the spear out to Smedda. “I will return when I can. Please, hold it for me.”
“I will hold it, but not for long,” said Smedda. “Before I can allow you to take it, it must be enchanted.”
Behind Smedda’s back, I threw my hands into the air and tried to mouth “No!” to Mag. Enchantment was a service provided only by wizards trained at the Academy, and it was fantastically expensive, beyond the reckoning of anyone but royalty. Mag did not even glance at me, but only nodded at Smedda.
“And how much will that be?” said Mag.
Smedda waved a hand. “The enchantments are simple. They will protect the blade from wear and keep the haft from breaking. The spear will not be wreathed in magical flame or anything so ridiculous. I have a shipment bound for the Academy next week already, and I will include the spear with the rest of them, for the same cost.”
I froze, my hands in midair where I had been trying to gesture to Mag that she should abandon this foolish idea. Now I cocked my head. Two hundreds of weights was already a bargain, even if Mag could not afford it. But with enchantment at no extra charge … that changed the nature of the deal considerably. I doubted if I could have resisted such an offer, and I knew Mag would never be able to.
“Done and done,” said Mag. “I imagine I can write you here, as I acquire the funds I will need before I can retrieve the spear?”
“I told you already, I will not hold the spear that long,” said Smedda. “You two are with the Silver Stirrups, yes? They will be in Dulmun for at least another half-year. Before you leave the kingdom, come and retrieve the spear. You can send me your payment later, or even in parts, as you are paid.”
Still behind Smedda’s back, I grabbed great fistfuls of my own hair, my face filled with delight as I looked at Mag. For her part, she seemed utterly thunderstruck, and it was a moment before she spoke.
“That is generous,” said Mag.
“I can afford to be generous,” said Smedda. “I do not know if you have heard, but I serve King Lannolf. I trust you to send the payment when you can; only a great fool would try to cheat the king’s own bladesmith, and you are not a great fool.”
“You still extend a great deal of trust,” said Mag. Where a moment ago she had sounded so self-assured that it annoyed me, now she seemed full of doubt. I almost thought she would refuse the deal. “The spear could be lost, or I could die in—”
“Ha!” barked Smedda—a single shout of laughter that I suspected was meant more to shut Mag up than to express mirth. “Girl, I just fought you. You, dying before you are able to pay me? You jest, and poorly.”
Mag seemed at last to be overwhelmed. She sank to one knee in the sand of the yard and bowed her head towards Smedda.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “You do me a far greater honor than I deserve, and I will not forget it.”
“I expect you shall not,” said Smedda. “But you honor me as well. Any craftsman has only one wish: to see their creations used well. King Lannolf and his kin are fine warriors, but when was
the last time they went to war? The blades I make for them languish in training yards, or in fine halls where they are used as decoration. Fah! When you take this spear from me, you will take it and use it the way it was meant to be used. I could ask for nothing more.”
Mag knelt there for a moment, silent, looking at the spear in her hand. In her eyes was some trouble, or some deep thought, at which I could not begin to guess. But it seemed clear the spear was more than a weapon to her.
I almost remember, she had said before, when I first found her looking at it.
But remembered what?
We left the shop soon after, and two months later we returned for the spear. Mag carried it ever afterwards, and it became part of her legend.
She never told me what she had almost remembered—not for many, many long years, anyway.
AFTER LEAVING NORTHWOOD, WE RODE into the Greatrocks together, traveling up the same path I had used to come down out of them. It had taken me six days when I rode with Loren. Now, we took the journey more slowly, for I was still tender from the battle. I slept long each night, setting camp as soon as night fell and often rising hours before the sun. It was ten days before Mag and I got very deep into the mountains.
It surprised me how easily we both fell into old routines. There are little tricks one learns after years spent on campaign trails—the best way to unfurl and repack a bedroll, the tricks of choosing a campsite, the skill of falling asleep quickly and waking up with speed. It came somewhat more easily to me, for I had ridden a long trail just a few weeks ago, guiding Loren through the mountains. But though Mag had not left Northwood in years, she picked up our routine just as quickly as I had.
Though we rode as fast as we could with my tender condition, we kept a wary eye out in case of attack. Yet we saw no sign of the Shades, nor of any other creature, save for an occasional rabbit or game bird fit for hunting. The satyrs and harpies, if any remained, avoided us entirely.
In the middle of the third day, we came to the Shade stronghold in the mountains. Then, for the first time, I ordered Mag to slow. We approached the fortress slowly and with stealth. If the Shades were to stop anywhere in the Greatrocks, it would be here.
Leaving the horses behind us, we crawled up a steep slope that brought us to a lesser peak overlooking the fortress. We crawled on our bellies for the last few paces, poking our heads over the edge of the land to peer down.
There it sat: the stronghold about which I now had so many evil memories. It crouched on a rock platform like a lurking, malicious spider. There was a chasm below its eastern wall, and a stone bridge reached across the gap. It was mayhap seven paces wide and had only low stone walls for railings. It was from that bridge that Jordel had fallen to his doom, though he brought a great foe into the darkness with him. Barely visible from where we lay in the grass, I could see the long stone ramp that led down from the stronghold’s west wall, falling away to the valley far below.
The stronghold itself, however, looked empty. I saw no signs of motion within, nor was there any indication that anyone had been there recently. From what I could see, it looked as though the Shades had passed straight through the fortress without stopping.
“No one there,” said Mag.
“Not that we can see,” I said. “We must still be cautious.”
“When have I ever been incautious?”
“Always. Every time, everywhere.”
“They had too many soldiers for them all to be hiding within those walls,” she said, ignoring my answer. “Not even if all of them were clustered together and standing as close as lovers.”
“Yet they may have left behind a rearguard,” I said. “I do not mean to say we have to inspect the whole fortress. But when we pass through it, let us be careful.”
She crawled back down the slope and away from the ridge. I followed her back to the horses, and together we rode out across the narrow stone bridge towards the stronghold. I paused for a moment in the middle of the span, looking at the low stone wall that rimmed it. Xain had used fire to burn words into the stone there, a eulogy for Jordel. But Mag did not notice, and she pressed on without stopping. I hurried to catch up with her.
The eastern gate stood open, as did the western gate on the other side. The wide courtyard within the walls was just as empty as it had appeared from the outside. The only thing to be found was some hay scattered about the place, floating and scraping along the ground in the mountain wind. Mag stopped in the middle of the yard and dismounted. I did the same. She looked about, brows raised.
“A good fortress,” she said. “The walls are strong.”
“Yet not infallible,” I said.
“Hm,” she said. “No walls are infallible. No enemy beyond reach.”
I grinned. “Do you speak of the Shades, or the weremage?”
Mag smirked. “There appears to be no one here. We should ride on. But hold a moment. You have a loose strap.”
She stepped up, fiddling with my saddle. I stared at her. My straps were tight, and we both knew it. Once she drew close, she spoke in a low voice.
“There are satyrs watching us. On the rocky slopes above the walls. Fetch something from my saddlebags. It will give you an excuse to look.”
I went to the other side of her horse and unbuckled one of the pouches hanging from the saddle. My eyes slid up the side of the mountain that towered over us. Tiny flashes of movement caught my gaze as satyrs ducked back out of sight. I took out a waterskin and brought it back to Mag.
“There are several of them,” I said, handing her the water skin. “But they do not seem interested in troubling us. Likely they are only keeping watch. We are past the border of their homeland, after all.”
Mag took a small swig of water and handed it to me. As I drank, she murmured, “They will have seen where the Shades went. We should ask them.”
I pursed my lips and put the stopper back in the waterskin. “Agreed. But try not to kill them, will you?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I thought they gave you a great deal of trouble when last you came this way.”
“They did, at the orders of their elders,” I said. “And their elders are under the sway of another.”
“The Shades?”
“Whoever leads the Shades,” I said. “The satyrs spoke of a Lord.”
“Satyrs have no lords.”
“No, they do not. To hear them speak of one worried me more than anything else we found in these mountains.”
“That is little concern of ours now. But let us get our hands on one of them, and we will have some answers about the weremage.”
I finished pretending to dig through her saddlebags and returned to my horse. “And I will have them answer for other things as well.”
We mounted again and rode through the western gate, down the long stone ramp into the valley. I found no good excuse to look back at the satyrs shadowing us, but every so often I would hear the soft clatter of hooves on the rocks high above. They were still there.
I knew we had to lure them into open lands, as far from any slopes as possible. Satyrs can nearly fly up a mountainside, and they could rain arrows down on us. But on open ground, they were no more nimble than a human. Only there would we have any chance of taking one of them alive.
To tell the truth, and despite my words to Mag, I found myself filled with anger that almost defied reason. Yes, the satyrs had only acted upon the directions of their leaders. But they had still nearly gotten me killed, along with all of my friends. That was not easy to forgive, though I was trying. After all, satyrs are not quite beasts, but neither are they quite human.
Not far from the bottom of the stone ramp was a small cluster of trees, a little wood that bent and huddled over the thin stream that ran through the middle of the valley. I led Mag towards it. The satyrs would think we were merely watering ourselves and the horses. But if they tried to approach us among the trees, we would be able to take them by surprise.
Though it was not very late in the day, th
e sun had already hidden itself behind the tips of the western mountains above. Dismounting, we ducked in among the shadows of the trunks, quickly losing ourselves among the trees. Once we were a good distance in, I stopped Mag and drew her against the side of an old beech tree. Together we looked back in the direction we had come.
There were the satyrs. They were making an attempt at stealth, but they were not used to it on such open terrain. They approached the trees warily, darting between brush and rocks with their awkward, loping gait. I counted six of them. Not an inconsiderable group, but against Mag and me they stood little chance.
“Let us tether the horses,” I said. “We do not want them to run off during the fight.” The beasts were already nickering nervously, for the satyrs had approached from upwind. My gelding eyed me as though trying to plan the right time to bolt.
We lashed the horses to a tree deeper in the wood and then returned to the beech tree. The satyrs were creeping between the trunks now, heads darting nervously back and forth in search of us. I had my bow in hand, and Mag had her spear and shield. We waited in total silence, listening as the creatures came closer.
Mag nudged me with her spear, and we sprang.
I fired two arrows in quick succession. One satyr went down with a shaft in its leg, another with fletching sticking out of its arm. Mag swung her spear in an arc, slamming the flat side of the spearhead into the temple of a third. It fell with a pathetic bleat. The other creatures screamed in fear, but they did not flee. They leaped towards us, flailing with clubs and short stone axes.
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