Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  Enik—whom the men did listen to, when they were of a mind to—strode toward where Larajin and Dray sat, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Sunlight glinted off a gold ring on his little finger, which seemed to be a new addition to his otherwise scruffy wardrobe since their departure from Ordulin. As he stared up at Dray, she noted that he had none of the traditional deference that a hireling normally displayed in the presence of a noble. Instead he met Dray’s eye directly, cheek puckering as he sucked his tooth.

  “Sun’s hot, and it’s been a thirsty march,” Enik said. “How about we open a couple of bottles from the cargo and slake our thirst?”

  Dray opened his mouth as if about to protest, but then his eyes got a dreamy, faraway look. He licked dry lips, and nodded.

  Paitar, having overheard the exchange, strode forward. “That’s not a good idea, my lord,” he told Dray. Eyes narrowing, he gave Enik a sideways look. “The men should stay sharp. We’ve still got a way to—”

  Dray cut him short. “Don’t be silly, Paitar,” he said. “In this heat I’d like a drop myself.” He turned to Enik, and with an exaggerated wink, added, “No more than a bottle between every two men. I expect you to stay sharp.”

  Enik touched his forefinger to one eyelid—obviously a signal his men understood, for they were on their feet in an instant, crowding around the back of the last wagon in line. Boards creaked as a crate was opened and corks popped, and the sellswords were tilting bottles to the sky, Adam’s apples bobbing as they gulped down the wine.

  Shaking his head and muttering curses under his breath, Paitar let his hand drift toward the hilt of his sword. A moment later, when Enik wrapped an arm around his shoulder and murmured in his ear, he nodded, and a slow smile spread across his face. Letting Enik lead him, he made his way back to the last wagon, ignoring the questioning looks the drivers gave him.

  As Enik threw a leering grin back over his shoulder at Larajin, Dray reached into one of the crates behind him and pulled out a slender blue bottle that bore an elaborate label.

  “Ice wine,” he told Larajin. “The finest the Foxmantle vineyards has to offer, from the pick of last year’s crop. Very expensive—which is why I insisted on driving this wagon myself. The other wagons all carry lesser vintages. Would you do me the honor of sharing a bottle with me, Thazienne?”

  Larajin was still watching the sellswords at the back of the caravan. They’d passed a bottle forward to the driver of the rear wagon, and seemed to each have a bottle to themselves. Paitar was drinking and laughing with the rest of them, one arm draped around Enik’s shoulder.

  “Dray,” she cautioned as he popped the cork of the bottle in his hand. “They’re drinking more than you permitted.”

  He glanced back briefly, then shrugged. “So they are. Even so, they’re still more than a match for elves. And don’t forget, we have Klarsh with us.”

  He peered ahead, trying to spot the wizard through the thick white mist, then he glanced up at the sun, noting its position in the sky.

  “We should reach Essembra well before evening,” he said, “and I don’t anticipate any trouble along the way. All of the attacks have been on the stretch of road north of town. We’ll be perfectly safe, even with a tipsy guard. Let them have their fun.”

  Larajin knew nothing about soldiering, but she didn’t think it prudent for the sellswords to be letting down their guard within the wood, even in an area that was supposedly safe. When Dray offered the bottle to her, she declined it with a slight shake of her head. She peered into his eyes. Even though he’d drunk only a little wine, they had a dreamy, glazed look.

  “Dray,” she said carefully, “it looked as though you were going to tell Enik that his men couldn’t have any wine. What changed your mind?”

  Dray shrugged again and took a pull from the bottle. “Delicious!” he pronounced. “I’ll have to commend our vintners.” Then he seemed to remember Larajin’s question. “Oh, yes. Enik. He seems like a good fellow. I like him.”

  The vagueness of his reply clinched it. Dray might be foolhardy—taking a caravan north when war was imminent proved that much—but he wasn’t stupid. Enik must have used magic on Dray, to convince him that he was harmless. Some sort of spell, no doubt, or that ring.

  Now that she thought about it, Larajin could remember several times in the last few days when Dray or Paitar had been about to reprimand one of the sellswords, only to change his mind at a word from Enik. Larajin shuddered, thankful that Enik hadn’t tried using the ring’s magic on her. Or maybe he had tried, and one of the goddesses had been watching over Larajin.

  In any case, she didn’t like the look Enik had just given her as he tipped back his wine. Three of the five drivers had tied off their reins and joined the sellswords near the rear wagon. Larajin was suddenly very aware that she was the only woman among more than a dozen men, all of them rapidly getting drunk—and all of them capable of being magically compelled to do whatever Enik wanted them to. Maybe she should just strike off through the woods on her own and hope forthebest.

  “These woods used to be part of Cormanthor, didn’t they?” she asked Dray.

  He nodded.

  “I’ve heard of a place called the Tangled Trees, where the wild elves are said to live. How close is it—are we under any danger of attack?”

  Dray waved a hand at the forest to their right. “It’s somewhere in that direction, but don’t worry, Thazienne, my dear,” he reassured her, patting her hand. “It’s deep within the forest, at least three days’ march from here. The wild elves shy away from the road. We’ve nothing to fear from them.”

  Larajin squinted ahead into the mist and saw that it was thinning. The wizard must have completed his task. A breeze that was probably magical, given the muggy stillness of the air elsewhere in the wood, was blowing the last of the mist into the woods at the side of the road.

  “I’m going ahead to talk to Klarsh,” she told Dray. She jerked a thumb in the direction of the sellswords. “I think you’d better see to them. If you don’t, they’ll drink all of your cargo.”

  Dray swallowed the last of the ice wine and laid the empty bottle on the floor at his feet.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “It is time we got moving, anyhow. I’d like to get to Essembra in time for a hot meal and a bath, to wash the dust from my hair.”

  He tied off the reins and climbed down from the wagon. As he walked away, Larajin reached for her bag. Holding it in front of her body, she chose her moment carefully—when Dray was busy shaking a finger at a bored-looking Enik—and slipped down from the wagon. She jogged up the road, keeping the wagon between herself and the men, hoping that Enik would be too busy working his magic on Dray and Paitar to notice. She felt guilty abandoning them—both seemed like decent men—but sticking around seemed like a bad idea. She might be able to counter a simple charm, but she didn’t know any spells that would protect her from more than a dozen drunken men.

  Hopefully, it would be some time before anyone noticed she was gone. It would take Dray some time to get the caravan moving again—especially if Enik “persuaded” him to join in another round of wine. By the time they looked around, she would be well into the woods. The only problem was that she had to get far ahead of the wizard before entering the forest. His magical wind had rather quickly blown the mist to either side of the road. Slow to dissipate, it clung between the trees in wispy patches, drifting to a halt when the breeze Klarsh had summoned was gone.

  The area that had been cleared lay just ahead of where Dray had halted his wagon, an expanse of putrefying vegetation that befouled the road and spread several paces beyond it, into the woods. The larger trees to either side of the road were still whole, but their trunks were blistered and cracked where the magical mist had washed over them like a roiling tide.

  Larajin rounded a bend in the road and breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that she was hidden from Enik’s sight. A patch of blighted vines squished under the soft leathe
r of her boots, lending a foul odor to the air,. She nearly stepped on a dead mouse that had been caught by the mist. It lay on its back, limbs contorted and mouth gaping wide. She kneeled for a moment to offer up a quick prayer for its soul, passing her hand once over its tiny corpse—then winced as a wisp of mist that still clung to the ground stung her skin.

  Stealing a glance at the treetops, she was relieved to see a familiar flash of turquoise some distance behind where the caravan had stopped. The tressym had stayed well away from the mist, thank the goddess.

  A pace or two ahead, Klarsh stood with hands on hips, surveying the damage his wand had wrought. He was an older man, with thinning gray hair and a hard, clean-shaven face that would have looked more at home on a soldier. He wore a robe of heavy black wool, despite the heat of the day, with the sleeves rolled up. Despite the mist that had swirled around him moments ago, he breathed easily. Larajin, on the other hand, felt her eyes watering.

  “Klarsh,” she called. “I need to relieve myself. I’m just going a little ahead, to find a spot in the forest that’s—”

  “Quiet, girl,” he hissed.

  His attention had shifted to something at the edge of the road. Without another word, he strode toward the base of an ancient, enormous oak. He spent several moments inspecting peculiar scratches on its trunk, then bent down and pulled a small knife from a sheath at his hip. He thrust the blade into the soil, scooping up dirt as if he were using a spoon. When he stood he began chanting a spell, holding the knife out in front of him, blade level with the ground.

  Larajin, fearful that the magical mist was about to boil across the road a second time, began backing hurriedly away. Before she had taken two steps, Klarsh flicked his knife, sending a scattering of dirt flying from the blade. He continued chanting, and a moment later his spell took effect. The ground beneath the tree began to buckle and heave, like waves on the sea. As the motion of the ground grew ever more frantic the oak leaned, groaned, leaned some more … and its roots tore free of the soil. It fell, splintering smaller trees like twigs and slamming into the ground with a crash that knocked Larajin to her hands and knees. Several lesser crashes followed, as smaller trees dominoed in its wake, then all was silent.

  As Larajin clambered, shaking, to her feet, wiping the stinging sludge from her hands, all she could do was thank the goddess that the oak hadn’t fallen in her direction. The trunk of the tree—as wide across as a stable door—would have crushed her like an ant.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she sputtered at Klarsh, shock causing her to momentarily overlook the fact that she was shouting at a powerful wizard. “I might have been killed!”

  He ignored her, and strode over to the hole the oak’s ruptured roots had torn in the ground. The wizard bent down, and pulled from the hole something that looked like a tarnished bowl, holding it by the golden knob that protruded from the bottom of it. He turned it in his hands, so the knob was at the top, and shook it gently. A round white object fell out and landed at Klarsh’s feet. It was a skull.

  Shocked, Larajin realized that this was not a bowl that Klarsh held but a helm, its silver tarnished and black from long years of lying under the ground. Only the crest at the top of the helm—a knob of gold as thick as her thumb—had survived intact. More gold glinted in the ruptured ground at Klarsh’s feet.

  Larajin heard the sound of running footsteps behind her. A moment later the sellswords appeared, Enik in the lead and spluttering curses.

  “What in the Nine Hells …”

  A feral smile spread across Enik’s face as he saw what Klarsh held. He strode forward and plucked the helm from the wizard and juggled it gleefully in one hand.

  “Well done, Klarsh—well done, indeed.” He turned to show it to the other sellswords. “Didn’t I tell you the Vale of Lost Voices would give up its dead? All we had to do was find one of the tombs. We’re rich, boys. Rich!”

  Whoops and cheers greeted this pronouncement. A moment later they turned to cautious, surly looks as Dray jogged up the road.

  Despite the fact that he was a Foxmantle, Dray wasn’t quite as stupid as Larajin had supposed. As soon as he saw the overturned tree and Enik holding the dirt-encrusted helm, his eyes widened in alarm.

  “Put that back,” he ordered. “That’s an elven burial you’re disturbing. It isn’t right.”

  Paitar appeared a moment later, sword in hand. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Enik squared off with Paitar, tossing the helm to one of his men and letting his hand hover near the hilt of his sword. Instead of drawing it, however, he spoke in a soft voice.

  “Now, now, Paitar, there’s no need to draw steel. We’re all friends here, and friends share. You’d like to be a wealthy man, wouldn’t you?”

  Paitar paused, blinked, then slowly lowered his sword. At a gesture from Enik, one of the sellswords stepped forward, yanked the sword from his hand, and danced back out of reach. Two others grabbed Paltar’s arms with rough hands, and a fourth held a dagger to his throat.

  Dray, slower to react, was even easier to subdue.

  “Not a noise—from either of you,” Enik told them.

  He gestured a second time, and six of his men turned and jogged back toward the wagons, a purposeful look in their eyes.

  Larajin could only stare, dumbfounded by the realization that the events that were unfolding must have been carefully planned, long in advance. That same realization was slower in coming to Dray. He struggled in the grip of the two ruffians who held him, tearing his shirt.

  “Klarsh! Do something!” Dray shouted. “They’re thieves—stop them!”

  Klarsh smiled. “I think not. I’d like to receive my share.”

  Enik guffawed and sucked on his tooth, considering the struggling Dray. “He’ll fetch a good ransom.” His eyes turned to Larajin and he said, “As will she. House Uskevren will pay handsomely for the return of its wayward daughter, I warrant, and we’ll be safe in Hillsfar, with a war to prevent anyone from reaching us.”

  Still chuckling, he strode toward her.

  Paitar, who had been quiet, began to struggle. He was rewarded with a stab in the throat. A rush of blood sprayed the face of the sellsword with the knife. Cursing, the man finished the job, slamming the hilt of his sword onto Paltar’s head and knocking him down. The old soldier was dead before he hit the ground, the flow of blood from his neck no longer pulsing.

  Dray sagged between the two men who held him, looking like he was about to faint.

  Larajin backed cautiously away, knowing that she had to act. Quickly, she whispered a prayer. She was rewarded an instant later with the floral fragrance of Sune’s Kisses. She thrust out a hand, palm-first, at Enik, and uttered the one-word command that would trigger her spell.

  “Flee!”

  Enik jerked to a halt, one foot dangling above the ground in mid-step. For a moment, his eyes widened in fear. He half-turned to flee—then shook his head, like a man awakening from a dream.

  He drew his sword and danced back a step, shouting over his shoulder, “Watch it, lads, she’s got spells. Klarsh! Do something.”

  With a sinking heart, Larajin realized her magic had not been powerful enough to subdue the brigand. Was his will really that strong—or had she done something to displease the goddesses?

  No time to wonder about that now. Klarsh had already begun muttering a spell. Determined to go down fighting, Larajin drew the magic dagger Tal had given her and assumed one of the fighting postures he’d taught her. Enik looked scornfully at her and laughed. As he started to speak, Larajin steeled herself, trying to close her mind to the magic she was certain was about to be unleashed upon her.

  “Hey, now, missy,” Enik said in a low voice. “Have you forgotten that old Enik’s your pal? Why don’t you give me that pretty little dagger before you hurt your—”

  A hissing noise, like the switch of a whip through the air, cut off his words. Enik’s expression changed, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping open. For a mome
nt, Larajin thought something had gone wrong with his spell, then she realized that that other objects were whistling through the air all around her.

  Arrows.

  Enik looked stupidly down at the bloody barb of the arrow protruding from his chest, let his breath out in a bubbling sigh, and collapsed to the ground. Behind him, the other sellswords cursed, drawing their swords and whirling to face the threat. The wizard hurriedly cast a spell, and disappeared with a soft pop.

  Larajin saw slender shapes flitting through the woods and caught a glimpse of a tattooed face. Elves!

  Whirling, she clutched her bag to her chest, uncertain which way to run. From behind her came the screams of men and the whinnies of startled horses. The caravan was also under attack. She could hear arrows burying themselves in the sides of the wagons with harsh thuds.

  She started to run up the road, but just ahead of her an arrow hit one of the brigands, causing him to howl in pain. Skidding to a stop, she decided to dash for the woods instead, but collided with Dray. He steadied her, then bent down and grabbed a sword from the lifeless hand of one of the brigands.

  “Run!” he shouted. “I’ll hold them back.”

  Before she could suggest that he, too, should run, an arrow struck Dray’s arm. He doubled over in pain and nearly dropped the sword. A second arrow buried itself in the ground near his feet.

  Seeing that it was hopeless to stand and fight, Larajin turned and did as Dray had bade her. She ran.

  A driverless wagon thundered past, pulled by terrified horses. Larajin sprinted beside it, using it to shield herself from the elves’ attack. Blighted vegetation cracked underfoot as she ran, and another arrow, fired under the wagon, narrowly missed her legs.

  Realizing that she was still a target, she turned and sprinted for the woods on the side of the road opposite the one the arrows were coming from. Mist still hung in patches here and there between the trees. She zigzagged around it, fighting her way through the blight-slimed underbrush. Branches ripped her bag from her arms and tore open the mouth of her money pouch, spilling its coins. Larajin winced at their loss but kept running, one hand still clutching her dagger. She dodged around a tree, putting its massive trunk between herself and the elf archers.