“Van?”
Sky Dancer’s voice emerged from the heavy smoke not far over my head.
“Tell the others,” I gasped, my arm growing numb. “Grab rocks. Big ones. They can’t see you but you can see them. Let’s deliver some payback.”
“You got it, Captain, sir,” she answered, her tone colored with grim humor.
Nudging Kiera into a lope, I circled around, adding my own magic into the mix, forcing the smoke into thicker and thicker columns. Her hooves tripped another explosion, the last one, it appeared. We galloped over the churned and scorched earth and no others blew up in our faces. Above us, flames licked the dense cover and blasts echoed through the hills. Flynn’s archers knew the Griffins were up there somewhere, but failed to see them. Firing blind, I thought, urging her into the clear and partway up the side of a small hill. I had to see.
The smoke obscured the enemy positions from my eyes but not from the Griffins. I grinned with satisfaction as cries and yells of shock and fear erupted from behind the natural fortifications. Moon danced out of the smoke, wings wide, his front talons holding a rock the size of my head. Taking careful aim, he threw it down and out. Aderyn dropped lightly to earth long enough to gather several rocks into her talons. Winging skyward again, she tossed one to Sky Dancer. Flying hard to either side of the rocky ravine, both flung their stones into the hidden Raithin Mawrn nest. Grey Mist, not to be outdone by the younger Atans, merely blasted low over the rocky concealment and dropped rock after rock from his arms and let gravity do his dirty work for him.
Flynn’s men boiled out of their cover and ran for their horses, concealed within a thicket of trees. I waved my bow. Didn’t I say Edryd could shoot a fly off a horse’s rump at a hundred paces? His arrow took a man through his throat, knocking him to the ground. The others, three of them, ducked into the wood. I didn’t see Flynn, however. Nor was Blaez one of the riders who sought shelter within the trees. I waved my arm – my signal. My request for a second wave of rock-fire.
Arrows from Edryd, Padraig, Edara and Alain flew across the shallow valley. Though they found no mark, their arrows kept the Raithin Mawrn pinned, their heads down. Grey Mist and Moon Whisperer both rose into the air with several rocks, and pelted the enemy location with heavy stones with no small amount of magic adding to the forces behind the throws. Valcan rose sluggishly from the ground, a rock the size of a melon in his raven talons. He tossed it, mid-air, to Sky Dancer, who caught it deftly. Flying hard, she threw it behind the fortification where I suspected Flynn was. I wasn’t wrong, nor her aim untrue.
Flynn, on his silver horse, galloped out of concealment with that madman, Blaez, on his tail. More of his men reached horses and mounted up, spurring hard. Reining in at the southern edge of the ravine, Flynn wheeled his horse. Though I couldn’t hear his yells, his gestures to his men were obvious. Come on. Come on. Exploding from the sheltering trees, his men galloped hard, spurring white-eyed mounts as they fled the wrath of the royal Atani.
Sky Dancer, Moon and Grey Mist burst out of the slowly dissipating smoke cloud, their intentions clear. Flynn and his devil-friends weren’t going to get very far. With the enemy flushed from hiding and in full retreat, they intended to drop on the fleeing Raithin Mawrn enemy like falcons on luckless mice. Flynn’s blood burned in her eyes as Sky Dancer screamed her challenge.
As his men vanished down the far side, Flynn raised both hands high over his head. At first I thought he intended surrender as he sat aboard his dancing Bayonne. Until the flames shot from his hands.
Not your small campfire flames, something to warm your toes and heat your spiced wine. The flames boiling from him could roast a dragon. Red, yellow, orange, roaring like an inferno, the fires reached hungrily toward the attacking Griffins. As far away as I was, I felt its crisping heat. I opened my mouth to scream something, anything.
There was no speed like a Griffin’s speed. Sky Dancer wheeled sharply right, a hairsbreadth from the licking fire. Moon dove straight down, and exchanged beak for tail, flying hard and fast the way he’d come. Smoke billowed from his wings, but he appeared unhurt. Grey Mist roared in pain as Flynn’s blaze hungrily reached for him. He, too, turned tail at the last second, flying faster than thought, beating hard, away.
The fire died. The ground smoked beneath the stinging rain, the blackened earth a stark reminder of the conflagration that nearly killed three Griffins. What few flames that remained soon died under the onslaught of the wet storm. Like Faeries dancing on the wind, the smoke drifted upward and dispersed. There was no sign of Flynn.
I sat Kiera, numb with pain and shock. Flynn possessed magic. Magic.
Malik’s voice bellowed, recalling his scattered troops, but I barely heard him. How in the name of hell could Flynn possess magic? Obviously, the explosives were spelled to ignite with the vibration of steps, but – how? Why? Why would the treacherous Raithin Mawrn condemn us for our possession of magic, yet wield it themselves? If Flynn practiced those same arts we did, why did he permit us to capture him so easily?
“Van?”
I glanced up, my thoughts shattered. Iyumi loped her blue stallion to my side and reined in. Her brow puckered in concern and relief, and she put her hand on my arm. “Are you all right?”
I started to nod, but something caught my attention. As my left arm didn’t want to work very well, I was forced to put the arrow I never fired back in my quiver and my bow across my shoulder awkwardly with my right. Whatever it was, it was tangled in Kiera’s mane.
“Van?”
I barely heard her voice as I plucked the arrow from her mane.
It was one of ours.
CHAPTER 8
By Magic and Damnation
“We ran like rabbits.”
Blaez sat cross-legged on the ground beside our campfire, warming his ale, scowling heavily. Nothing ever made him happy. Had we succeeded in seizing Princess Yummy as planned, he’d still find something to grouse about. So accustomed to his complaints, I paid him scant attention, and poked the fire with a stick.
I used my hand this time, not my power. Since the death of the little boy, using my magic made me feel like vomiting. Gone was the joy I felt in practicing my new craft. In its place, nausea and guilt swamped my guts, coating my tongue with slime, and made me want to hurl whatever might lie in my stomach. None of them knew I saved them as we fled from the Griffins’ wrath. They assumed the enemy beasts had been called off, like hounds to a whistle. Only I knew that had I not turned and channeled my flames at them, our corpses would litter the hills right now, picked apart by the ravens and vultures.
I cursed under my breath at Vanyar’s cleverness. Just when I thought I owned his ass, he turned my sure victory into my ignominious defeat. Damn him. Damn him and his flying hellcats. Those rocks flung from out of the smoke was, no doubt, a stroke from a military genius. Rather than hate him, I raised my own skin of ale to him in a private toast and drank deep.
“What do we do now, my prince?” Buck-Eye asked, tending to a badly injured Rade. Under the Griffins’ attack with the rocks, Hogan died from an arrow strike and Rade suffered several broken bones. Torass came through with a busted arm, thanks to the Griffins’ deadly aim.
“We lick our wounds and go home,” Blaez commented sourly. “Nothing else we can do.”
“Shut up, Blaez,” I said, my voice soft. “The King might find dissatisfaction in your performance this time.”
I turned my head to meet his hot eyes. “You certainly aren’t immune to his anger. Care to taste the whip?”
Muttering, Blaez drank his warmed-over ale, hunching his shoulders as though fearing someone might take it from him. “My man died today,” he said bitterly. “Not yours. Not fair, not fair at all.”
“If I wanted you dead,” I replied, my tone cold. “You’d be dead. Got it?”
He subsided, muttering, hitching his way from the fire, and to his pallet. Galdan stood guard, his face expressionless, and his hand on his sword hilt. I wasn’t the o
nly one who noticed sweat trickling down his cheek. Without Hogan as his back-up, I suspected he felt alone and friendless. I knew my men liked and respected him, and none would raise a blade unless at my order. Unless Blaez himself provoked it, I’d no plans to kill Galdan.
Gathering his explosive materials, Blaez set to making more of his beloved bombs. He’d depleted his entire supply on our failed attack on the Atani, yet had a full pack-mule of material with which to create more. He set about, muttering to himself, filling both bamboo reeds and clay pipes with nails, powder, small rocks and sealing them with wax and string. I knew, earlier in the day, his bombs went off at the right time because Blaez set his spells for motion. Anytime a foot or hoof came close – boom! I let him believe I believed they were built that way. I pretended to ignore the many arrow-devices that didn’t have a lit fuse, but exploded in the faces of the flying Griffins anyway. Blaez hid his powers most cleverly.
“Make them bigger this time,” I told him. “We’ll need as many more of those arrow-bombs as you can concoct. If you need an assistant, grab one. Boden is clever and learns quickly.”
He ignored me, but delved into yet another pack and pulled out large glass containers. By their size, I knew he had them specially crafted for his effective bombs. How he kept them from breaking as we travelled was anyone’s guess. More magic, I suspected. Cushion them in spells of air, if there were such.
“How is he?” I asked Buck-Eye.
Rade hadn’t ridden long with Buck-Eye, but the mercenary knight treated him with the same affection and regard as though they’d been friends since boyhood. I liked that aspect of Buck-Eye’s nature. Once he attached his loyalty, there was no shaking him from it. I pried him from Blaez’s side for a simple reason: Buck-Eye hated Blaez, despite his allegiance to the ugly Commander.
“In pain, m’lord,” Buck-Eye answered. “He’ll make it, if we can permit him the time. But he’s hurt bad, m’lord.”
I can heal him, I thought. I knew my powers included those of healing. I could lay my hand on Rade’s brow and will his bones to knit, wash comfort over his pain, and grant him ease. Like Buck-Eye, Rade freely offered his loyalty into my hand and service. Though my cynicism and paranoia worried he’d one day sink his blade into my back, he never once turned that suspicion into proof. Part of me craved to lay my hand on his brow, and damn the consequences. Perhaps one day, I may find some redemption for the horror I’ve done, for the evil powers within me. I wanted nothing else than to help Rade, and wash the wounds of my soul by saving his life. I dared not.
I bit my inner cheek, inviting the swelling, the pain. If I did, they’d know immediately I owned magic. Would they remember their oaths of loyalty and obeisance? Would they forget the gold I paid them and rip me limb from limb from sheer panic? Or would they obey the kingdom’s laws that none may possess magic and live? What would they do then? Was his life worth my own? Of course it was. But was his life worth Fainche’s? Worth Enya’s?
Never.
Tears welled in my eyes, but didn’t fall. He’ll die, I thought, and I must abandon him to die. He can’t travel, and come the dawn we must ride hard for the Shin’Eah. Van, Malik and Iyumi won’t waste time over such thoughts of good or evil. They’ll heal the hurts of their fellows and carry on, the weight of guilt not hampering them at all.
I envied them that freedom.
Evil was a very lonely existence.
Ease his suffering, nimrod, a voice said from deep within me. The voice sounded strangely like Van’s. You know how.
I did know how. Under the cover of the darkness and flickering shadows, I conjured a pouch of white powder. I cradled it in my hands, staring down at it. Years before I watched a physician give the white powder to a wounded man and named it blackroot. Being a chatty fellow, he explained its primary use as a pain killer. First dug from the ground it was indeed black, but after drying and processing it turned white. Use it sparingly, I was told. Too much, the physician said, and the blackroot stopped the heart. The patient died as a result.
I pretended to rummage through my saddlebags and discover the leather pouch. I tossed it to Buck-Eye. “Give Rade some of that.”
“How much, m’lord?”
“As much as he needs,” I answered, drinking from my cup, my eyes on the fire. “Oh, and give a pinch to Torass. It’ll help him, as well.”
No one seemed to notice the conflicting instructions. Buck-Eye dosed Rade heavily with generous amounts of the blackroot, raising his head onto his knee and offering the laced water to Rade’s dry lips. Todaro added a small pinch to a cup of ale, and handed to Torass to drink. Torass tossed the liquor past his throat, and swallowed hard. He fell back onto his pallet, panting, cradling his broken arm.
“Sleep well,” I muttered, sipping my own ale. It tasted bitter, oh, so very bitter, on my tongue. “Come dawn, things will look better.”
“Who’s on watch, m’lord?”
I should command old Sourpuss to the third watch, the worst one of all. Unfortunately, I needed his skills as a bomb-maker far more than I needed him drowsing at his post. Given his love of the bloody things, he’ll contentedly create them until dawn broke, then doze in his saddle as we travelled.
“Me,” I whispered. “I’ll take the first, you the second and Galdan the third.”
I turned my face briefly over my shoulder toward Buck-Eye, yet I couldn’t look at Rade laying there, his head cradled in Buck-Eye’s lap. Despite my averted eyes, my ears heard his labored breathing soften, my power sensing the gradual slowing of his heart. From my peripheral vision, I saw him sink deeper into slumber, his pain gone.
“Get your rest,” I told Buck-Eye. “He’ll sleep sound this night.”
“M’lord.”
Buck-Eye tenderly lay Rade’s head down, pillowed on his cloak. After tossing a bit on the cold, hard soil, Buck-Eye dozed. His hand pulled his blanket up to his neck as though chilled. I knew the instant he dropped into real sleep, his dreams vivid yet not deadly. I studied him a moment, wishing I hadn’t the responsibility I had. I envied him his freedom to sleep, free from worries and the did-I-do-the-right-thing questions. His wasn’t the sleep of the dead, as Rade drifted toward, but the natural slumber of the bone-weary.
Around me the camp quieted, the snores of the men rising like a cacophony of disharmonic music. Blaez still worked on his pride and joy, his eyes down, as the pile of devices beside him grew. I knew he’d keep at it until weariness forced him to sleep. As he seemed to require little of that, he’d work and create the devices we must plant to kill the Atani, seize the princess and find this wayward child everyone blathered about.
The waxing moon shone down on me as I walked away from the camp, the men and the blazing fire. My power informed me only two owls, the many numerous buzzing insects annoying my ears and an early fox noticed me walk into the darkness beyond the fire. Just as I wanted it.
I knew my men were safe. Both my gut and my power told me so.
Thorny vines tried to trip me up as I paced slowly from the firelight and into sheer darkness where no light shone. My eyes, needing a fraction of light to see by, saw nothing but shadows and trees. I listened to the soft sough of the wind through the pines, its cool fingers stroking my neck and cheeks. My sweat dried under its velvet strokes, my heart trip-hammering in my chest.
I don’t belong here, I thought. This place is holy and I am not. Forgive me, please.
Out of sight and ear-shot of the camp, I sat down on a nearby oak stump, rounded by weather. Its rotting trunk lay half-buried in thorny brambles, and a small rodent squeaked within its crumbling core. A good spot to post my watch, I thought. Here the forest thinned and the ground gradually rose toward a shallow hill. Above me, the stars glittered like diamonds in a bed of black velvet, the moon but a speck upon the eastern sky. A shooting star flashed across the distant horizon, trailing its red dragon’s tail. The firedrake. An omen, the old stories said. But for what?
Pulling it from under my tunic, on its fine
silver chain, I contemplated the scrying crystal my mother gave me. A smallish, gold stone, like a small piece of amber, it all but glowed with a light of its own. Though it contained a strange warmth, not from my body’s heat, its touch didn’t feel evil or tainted. Though I wasn’t mastered in the old histories, I suspected the crystal was a relic from the Mage Wars centuries ago, the battles that split the nations of Raithin Mawr and Bryn’Cairdha apart.
On my first attempt the day before, in planning our ambush, I found Van and Company by staring deeply into it, and envisioned Van within my mind. Within moments, a large moving picture – complete with color, facial expressions, background, horses and all those folks that accompanied Van and Iyumi in the sky above me. Only sound didn’t come through. When I pondered the question for a moment, such as where were the Griffins, the Centaurs, the humans placed in this column marching north, I was promptly answered. Two Centaurs paced a mile in front. Two Griffins protected the rear. Human cavalry rode to the sides and Griffins and Shifters flew watch in the skies. Any question I asked was answered, completely and thoroughly.
Except what they said to one another.
I asked to see the terrain ahead of them, and the crystal showed me the shallow valley rife with potential ambush terrain, jutting rocks and broken boulders creating natural walls. Van and Company would strike that valley late the next afternoon, if they kept to their current course. Now how to get ahead of them. I pondered on it, and the crystal obliged me with a visual of the highland hills, in all directions. If we kept to another long valley parallel with my planned ambush location and rode hard all night, we could arrive well ahead of them, and plant some bombs.
As I invoked its power well away from Blaez and the others, I tried keeping the scrying crystal a secret. But Blaez proved nosy as well as vocal. Unfortunately, he witnessed me pull it from my tunic and fondle it, as I mentally planned our assault.
“What the bloody hell is that thing?”
Shrugging, I tucked it away under my tunic, next to my heart. “A token of my sister’s love,” I replied, my tone light. “She gave it to me the morning we departed. Do you have someone waiting for you, back home?”
The Unforgiven Page 25
