by M. S. Verish
Jinx was near the summit when a figure crested the hill and charged at him. The two of them collided and tumbled down to the river bank. Jinx managed to pull himself away, watching as Arshod crouched to attack again. He kept the magic sword poised in front of him, but this was not a friendly match. This was a fight for his life.
Arshod rushed him with a cry, and Jinx’s weapon diverted the blow, sliding along the Jornoan’s arm and cutting into his shoulder. “I don’t wanna fight you,” the thief said. “I just wanna help my friends.”
“You must help yourself first,” Arshod said. “I will not let you return to them.” They circled each other, waiting for the first move.
“We just want to leave,” Jinx said. “Nobody’s gotta die.” He held up his sword in trembling hands as Arshod came at him again. There was a clang of metal, and Jinx moved away. “We didn’t even take the stone or the Demon.”
“It does not matter,” Arshod said. “You are a threat to Rashir’s plans. You were the ones who lied.”
“’Cuz we’re afraid of what he’ll do with the stone. We just wanna keep it safe.” Jinx narrowly dodged another strike.
“The Ravenstone belongs to Rashir,” Arshod said. He advanced upon the thief, driving him back toward the river. “If you do not fight, I will kill you.”
“Well, I don’t wanna fight, and I don’t wanna hurt you.” Jinx glanced back at the water. “I don’t wanna die, either. Just an hour ago, we were still friends.”
“You are a coward and an imposter,” Arshod said. He gave a series of short thrusts toward Jinx’s chest, watching him splash backward into the river. “I do not know you to call you ‘friend.’”
Jinx stumbled and tried to hold his ground. He made the next move, swinging at Arshod’s torso. The Jornoan avoided the obvious affront, but he managed to give a good slice to the thief’s forearm.
Staring at the blood and feeling the burn of the cool air upon the wound, Jinx reeled and fell backward into the water. He’s really gonna kill me. The revelation was short-lived as Arshod stepped from the bank and into the water. Jinx’s instincts—what few he believed he had—propelled him to his feet. He had no strategy—no great evasive plan. All he could think about were the friends he had left behind. He had to get back to help them.
He took a side swipe at the Jornoan, his attack catching Arshod by surprise. The Jornoan staggered but regained his balance. Jinx was already racing for the embankment when Arshod took up pursuit. He would have the advantage of higher ground, except that the slope was slick with mud. He felt fingers grip his leg and tug at him. He began to slide backward, and in a panic, he thrust the sword into the earth to keep him from losing further ground.
Arshod, however, had gained ground. He gripped the material near the thief’s neck and wrenched him backward. Jinx clung to the sword as he fell, certain Arshod was going to make the final move. The blade wrenched from the clay, but the force flung it from the thief’s slick grasp. Jinx gasped as he hit the bed of the stream, the frigid water welling over his face and body. At any moment, Arshod would end him.
Jinx lurched forward and sucked at the air. Arshod was beside him, but he, too was on his back. Then Jinx saw the blade nestled in his gut, saw the scarlet eddies in the water. He flipped over and knelt at Arshod’s side. “No. No, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to—”
Arshod took hold of the magic blade and pulled it free with a cry. “If not me, then you, Enforcer. My hand was not guided by magic,” he said.
“Arcturus can heal you,” Jinx said quickly, without thinking. “Or maybe the magic stream, or—”
“There is no magic stream,” Arshod spat, trying to lift his head above the water.
Jinx came to his aid, propping him upright with his hands. “Just—just hold on. I can get help. Don’t die. Please.” He could not tell his tears from the water of the river that ran down his face.
“You have never taken a life,” Arshod said, meeting his gaze. “It cannot be undone.” He shuddered. “Finish what you have started. Do not leave me this way.”
Jinx’s eyes widened in horror. “No. I can’t. I can’t kill you.”
“You already have. I am asking for mercy.”
Through his blurry vision, Jinx lifted the sword from the riverbed.
“End it,” Arshod said.
“I’m not a fighter,” Jinx protested. “I’m just a thief. An unlucky thief. And a coward.”
Arshod glared at him. “Damn you if my death is in vain. Do as you intended, and find your friends.”
Jinx wiped his sleeve across his eyes and gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands. He closed his eyes and raised the weapon, point-down. With an agonized cry, he brought it down.
He did not want to open his eyes, but Arshod was right. He had to go. The Jornoan lay there, unblinking and still. Jinx clutched at his stomach, feeling as though he would vomit. He took a deep breath and then another. His vision cleared, but his heart felt as though it was made of lead. He shook his head and reclaimed his sword. “I’m coming,” he whispered.
*
Rashir had taken the staff. Everyone had watched his fingers pull it free of Arcturus’s grasp, and it was then that Hawkwing struck. The two brothers nearest him did not have a chance to react as the tracker’s sword plunged and retreated without warning. The third brother advanced quickly, but just as Hawkwing swung, he vanished—only to reappear behind the tracker. Hawkwing narrowly evaded the brother’s strike, and then his opponent vanished again. With barely a sound, the Jornoan reemerged from thin air and swung at Hawkwing’s legs. The tip of the blade nicked the tracker’s calf, but then the attacker was gone again. Hawkwing waited before swiping the empty air opposite where the Jornoan had been. His enemy emerged just in time to receive the blow, but the tracker did not wait to see him fall.
Hawkwing headed for Arcturus, who was being restrained by Nesif. Before the Markanturian stood Rashir, the first true color of emotion upon his face. There was rage there now, smoothed only by the Priagent’s determination to end the confrontation in his favor. In his hands, the Ravenstone flickered. Rashir was guarded by Hesun, whose narrowed gaze challenged Hawkwing to make his move.
If Hawkwing had been younger, he might have been strong enough and fast enough to confront them all, but he was no longer the rage-driven fighter he had been. He did not believe he would succeed in regaining Whitestar and the Ravenstone, but perhaps he could still free Arcturus. He longed to free the Demon as well, but whatever hold Rashir had upon the creature, Jinx had proven that it was unable to escape its master’s will. The Priagent would have to die.
Hesun did not wait for the inevitable skirmish. He strode forward confidently, sword in hand. Hawkwing took note of the stocky brother’s careless grip on the weapon. He, too, has a gift he is waiting to employ, but what could it be? Hesun raised the blade with both hands as though he intended to cleave a fallen tree. With the Jornoan’s chest left open, Hawkwing lunged for Hesun’s heart, but the blade deflected off an invisible, impenetrable shell. The force of the collision was jarring, nearly knocking Hawkwing’s sword from his hands. He managed to redirect his motion to a hasty defense, barely blocking the Jornoan’s slow but powerful swing. Both men stumbled, though it was Hawkwing’s sword that dropped to the ground, beyond his reach. Quick to recover, the tracker did not hesitate in moving in on his opponent. There was a reason he had earned the name “Talon.”
He tackled Hesun to the ground, and the Jornoan relinquished his sword to grapple with him, trying brute strength against brute strength. Hesun was younger, eager for victory. Hawkwing knew patience, and he had the benefit of his size. They twisted and struggled, and when it seemed the tracker would gain the advantage, Hesun slipped a knife from his sleeve and into his hand. He went for Hawkwing’s neck, but Hawkwing’s massive hand swallowed Hesun’s and twisted the Jornoan’s arm behind his back. Hesun grunted, but was seemingly unbreakable. If sheer force could not beat Hawkwing’s opponent, there had to be a diff
erent weakness. The tracker locked his arms around Hesun’s neck and tightened his hold.
Hesun kicked and gasped and lurched, but Hawkwing did not relent. As his opponent’s struggles weakened, the tracker looked up to find Nesif on his way to assist. Nesif was cause for concern, and there would be no wresting the sword from him. Hawkwing prepared to use Hesun’s limp body as a shield, but there was a shout and a clang as Jinx charged Nesif from behind.
The giant of a Jornoan spun and easily parried the blow, knocking the thief off balance. Jinx’s distraction had given Hawkwing just enough time to drop Hesun and scramble for his lost sword. The tracker wanted to tell Jinx to leave—to head back to the river—but perhaps between the two of them, they would overpower the giant. Just as he and Jinx prepared to attack, Hawkwing watched Nesif become two.
*
Arcturus looked on as Nesif heeded Rashir’s order to assist his fallen brother. He had to rub his eyes when the giant had doubled. There was no mistaking there were two identical men with sword in hand, and it was physically painful for him to watch the awkward moves of the young thief and the tiring efforts of the experienced tracker. He could not endure seeing them fall, and their demise would be because he had trusted more in his enemy than in the company with whom he had journeyed.
“Your spy has cost me dearly, but he will fall to Nesif’s blade,” Rashir said. “As will your foolhardy boy.”
The Priagent’s words were so easy, so confident. Arcturus looked at the slight man, sudden anger welling in his heart. It was the anger of betrayal, the anger that grew from his own shame. It was the anger in his own helplessness and utter failure of their mission. Arcturus clenched his fists and swung at Rashir’s head. He had never thrown a punch in his entire 347 years of existence, but regardless of proper form, contact was made.
Rashir hit the ground, blood gushing from his nose. He stared, stunned, at the audacity of the Markanturian looming above him. The Ravenstone had been knocked from his grip, the light within it now dark. Little did he realize that Arcturus was not finished.
Arcturus clenched his teeth and gave the Priagent a good kick to the ribs. “How dare you mock them! How dare you!” He kicked again and lost his balance. On his knees, he bent over the little man and slapped his face. “For all we have endured, I will not watch helplessly as you destroy us! My trust is not so easily cast aside. You are the offender. Your colors have shown through, you ruthless man.” He took Rashir by the shoulders and shook him as hard as he could.
Rashir made a funny sound, his widened eyes windows to his panic. “Nesif!” he gasped. “Nesif!”
Arcturus yanked the wizard’s hat from atop his head and stuffed it into the Priagent’s mouth. “Enough of you!” He sat back and dabbed at the sweat pouring from his face. He looked up to see Nesif—just one of him—rushing toward him, and though there was no time to react, his eyes had affixed upon a figure—Jinx—lying still upon the ground.
Then Nesif was upon him, shoving him back with enough force to knock the wind from Arcturus’s lungs. As Arcturus gasped for air, he saw Rashir scramble for the Ravenstone. No sooner than his hands were upon it, the silvery glow had returned, illuminating the fury that scarred the Priagent’s face in a terrible and twisted glower. Rashir spoke not a word as he summoned the magic of the stone.
Arcturus need not have tried to regain his breath, for it would have caught in his throat as he watched a shadowy form seep from the Ravenstone. It grew and darkened until it smothered the Priagent, and then it continued to grow. The shape of a distorted and massive bird rose above him, shadowy wings spread wide to swallow the landscape in obscurity. Its beak gaped, and the horrible sound of screaming wind threatened to make him deaf. Arcturus shrank away, but there was nowhere to go.
The Raven reared its head and dove at him. Arcturus closed his eyes.
He felt a violent shove—so great a force that sent him reeling. His eyes snapped open and saw the wind throttling the trees and whipping the grasses surrounding the encampment. Dust stirred and rose in great masses to meet the dark and churning clouds. Coughing, he recovered his senses and dared turn his head to the doom that had awaited him.
The Raven was gone. All that remained was a smoky trail from where it had borne down upon him. Except that he had been moved. In his stead was the tracker.
Arcturus’s ears rang loud enough that he could not hear Nesif’s shouts, but he could see the giant lift the Priagent into his arms and head for the covered wagon. Hesun was already there, climbing into the bed; Asmat held the reins. They were fleeing, but from what?
There was growing light on the horizon, coming from the direction of the river. Two radiant riders emerged, heralded by a low-flying white hawk. Arcturus shielded his eyes until they could adjust to see the riders slip from a pair of white stags. He managed to get to his knees and crawl the short distance to where Hawkwing lay.
The tall man was ashen, but conscious. He trembled like one who had been immersed in an icy river. Arcturus pressed a hand to the tracker’s forehead and recoiled from the cold. Hawkwing’s lips moved—he was trying to speak—but Arcturus could yet hear nothing.
The white hawk lighted on the ground, not an arm’s length from them. Arcturus looked up to find one of the luminous figures had come to stand near them. At first glance, she was a woman carved from alabaster. Fair and flawless, she might have been Beauty personified. Her hair was sunlight, streaming down her back and upon her shoulders, tucked behind tapered ears. Her eyes were a tender green—like the fresh shoots of the leaves in spring. Her slender form was modestly covered in plain attire that spoke for neither gender; her delicate feet were bare. She knelt beside them, and as she gazed at them, Arcturus realized her eyes were not green, but an actual reflection of the forest. He did not know his mouth had slipped open until he tried to speak, but no words formed in his mind. He was inundated by the vision before him.
The woman took his hand and kept it in her gentle grasp; it was like holding a riverstone warmed by the afternoon sun. The warmth spread through him, and his world calmed. The ringing in his ears ceased, and he could breathe easier. Her fingers slipped from his as she turned her attention to the tracker.
Arcturus finally found his voice. “I…I thought you were myth,” he murmured.
She said nothing but graced him with a sad smile. She took Hawkwing’s hand, and his trembling diminished, but his pallor remained unchanged.
“You are here to help,” Arcturus inferred. “For what you cannot do, perhaps I can assist.” He reached toward the tracker, but she stayed his hand.
“Not me,” Hawkwing said, his voice a whisper. He took a breath. “Jinx.”
Arcturus’s eyes darted to where the thief lay, the second Ilangien at his side. He reached for his staff to help him stand, but it was gone. He knew at once the Jornoans had taken it, along with the Ravenstone. Their mission had failed. James. James is more important, he told himself. He struggled to his feet and went to the thief.
“If I might,” Arcturus said awkwardly, and the Ilangien moved aside. Arcturus knelt down, his heart tightening to see Jinx in tears. “My boy,” he said softly, “I am here.” His eyes swept over the young man, seeing the gaping cut upon his forearm, the blood-soaked stain at his side.
“It’s over, ain’t it?” Jinx asked.
“What is ‘over,’ James?” He wrapped his thick fingers over the thief’s forearm and began to heal him.
“All of it,” Jinx said, miserable. “We lost. The stone, the Demon…” He sniffled and wiped his eyes with his bloodied hand.
“We did what we could,” Arcturus assured him. “It was unfair of William to believe we could manage this task, and I should never have allowed it.”
“Arcturus—I killed him,” Jinx said, his blue eyes widening. “I killed him. He’s dead.”
The Markanturian’s brow furrowed. “Who? Who did you kill?”
“Arshod. Jedinom’s Sword, I killed him.” The tears came faster.
; Arcturus lifted his hand to see the cut had been mended. He moved down to the thief’s side, frowning to find the injury was deeper than he had thought. “I am certain he followed you to do the same,” he said.
“I know, but he’s dead now—because of me.”
“I wish I could have spared you from this,” Arcturus said, more to himself. “I cannot take this weight off your heart, but you must believe there was no other outcome. You are alive, and you will be fine.” No matter how deep his physical wound was, the thief would carry the emotional scars of his action. “We all make our choices, and we must contend with them and all their outcomes. You made yours, and Arshod had made his.”
Arcturus could feel the strain of his efforts as he mended the worst of the wound. He withdrew and closed his eyes to regain his focus. “I will need more time to help you,” he said. “Be mindful of your actions.” He opened his eyes and watched Jinx attempt to sit up. He offered the thief a hand.
“It don’t hurt as much,” Jinx admitted.
“I told you you will be fine,” Arcturus said, forcing a smile.
Jinx nodded and suddenly lifted his head. “Where’s Hawkwing?”
They turned to see the tracker walking slowly toward them, the Ilangien woman close beside him.
“He don’t look so good,” Jinx said. “And who’s she? And—” He spun to face the Ilangien closest him. “What’s going on? Where are—”
“Hush, James,” Arcturus said. “The Priagent and his men are gone. The Ilangiel have come to help us.”
“The elves? But you said they’re not—”
“I was wrong,” Arcturus said, looking up at the pale tracker. “I was wrong about many things.”
“We are heading for the forest,” Hawkwing said, his voice strained. “We should arrive before dusk.” “They’ve left their horses.”
“I do not know that you are fit to ride,” Arcturus said, doubtful. “You—”
