by Hilari Bell
“You might as well let me go,” Tobin said. Despite his resolve, his heart beat hard with rising dread. “If you do, it might go easier with you when, ah . . . There’s no point in holding me.” And just in case they were stupid enough to miss it, he added, “I don’t know anything.”
His left eye had swelled shut by the time his captors dragged him into their camp, and he had a few other bruises—but it wasn’t much worse than the casual abuse chanduri received every day. Tobin had refused to reveal anything about the Realm army, with enough firmness to convince them he knew something worth concealing.
It was no part of Tobin’s plan to play the hero. One corner of his soul still felt he should hold out as long as he could before he “broke” and revealed all. But the rest of him was too frightened to care what the Duri thought of Softer courage. They could feel all the contempt they liked, as long as they believed his story.
The cage they thrust him into was smaller than the one in the Morovda camp, and Tobin caught a whiff of a rank, familiar scent. At some point this cage had held a leopard. He didn’t bother to hunt for a weakened bar, for he had no desire to escape. At least not yet.
They weren’t in a hurry to question him. It was still dark when they locked the cage door, but the camp had awakened and eaten breakfast before a handful of Duri approached. A newly captured knight couldn’t have interpreted the slight distance between the warriors and an old man with lean-muscled arms. Tobin knew he must be the shaman, simply by the way the youngsters deferred to him.
One of the older warriors, who Tobin guessed was the camp’s chief, looked Tobin up and down before he spoke.
“So, Softer. My Duri tell me you know something about your army’s plans.”
“I know you’re going to lose,” said Tobin. Some of the young knights he’d known had been that arrogant, that foolish, when they arrived at the border. Their first battle usually changed that attitude. Or killed them.
“Really?” The chief sounded bored, but his gaze was alert. “You haven’t won many battles so far. In fact, you haven’t won any battles.”
Tobin set his teeth and said nothing, the picture of heroic stupidity. He hoped.
The chief shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.” He gestured the shaman forward. “He’s all yours, Ruki.”
Tobin did fight when they pulled him from the cage. It was in character to struggle mightily against the hopeless odds, and he was frightened enough that it would have been hard not to.
All it accomplished was to earn him another set of bruises. They bound Tobin spread out on the ground, with his wrists and ankles tied to the posts of one of the goat pens. Then they departed, chatting among themselves, as if tying up a prisoner for interrogation was only another chore. To the Duri, that’s all it was. The accumulated knocks were beginning to add up to pain, even if he had become accustomed to casual violence.
Tobin had been flogged once, and the memory still infected his nightmares. He figured he’d take three whip cuts, maybe four or five, before he started to talk. If they brought out hot irons, he’d start talking immediately. The point was to be convincing, not brave, and the thought of being burned frightened him enough that he could be very believable.
But when the shaman finally returned, he carried . . .
“Paint?” Tobin stared at the small pot and brush. “You’re going to paint me?”
“For now,” said the shaman, and proceeded to do so.
Runes on his forehead, his cheekbones, down the line of his jaw. The paint was cool and black—not even blood, as far as Tobin could tell. The brushstrokes were soft, and it itched as it dried.
The shaman cut open Tobin’s shirt and painted runes over his heart and down his ribs. He started to hum tunelessly as he removed the shirtsleeves to paint runes down the insides of Tobin’s arms. He spread Tobin’s fingers to paint the palms of his hands. Then the knife sliced up the legs of his britches, baring his thighs to the brush. Tobin’s boots came off so runes could decorate his shins. The brush tickled on the soles of his feet and Tobin squirmed, but he was too nervous to laugh.
“Is this some sort of truth spell?”
If it was, his whole plan had just fallen apart. But none of Vruud’s tales had contained anything like that, and the storyteller hadn’t protested when Tobin explained his plan. If the Duri shamans had a truth spell, surely the keeper of their history and traditions would know it.
“No,” said the shaman. “Or perhaps it is, after a fashion. I’ll come back when the paint’s dry.”
He capped the jar and strolled off, still humming under his breath.
The morning sun shone in Tobin’s eyes, and he turned his face away. He needed to piss, but he knew they wouldn’t release him for that. And—the Dark One take dignity—pissing himself with fear at the right moment might help convince the Duri that he’d broken.
The goats clustered nervously at the far side of the pen. Eventually, Tobin knew, they’d become curious and come over to find out if his clothing was edible.
But they hadn’t had time to do so when the shaman and the chief returned.
“Looks good,” the chief said. He knelt to check the ropes that bound Tobin’s wrists and ankles. They were painfully tight, and growing more painful as time passed, along with his assorted bruises. Tobin thought he could yield fairly quickly, if they’d get on with it.
The shaman snorted. “I could have botched every rune, and you wouldn’t know it.”
The chief glared. Some rivalry there? Something Tobin could exploit?
But then the shaman captured Tobin’s attention completely by drawing his dagger.
“What are you doing?” The quiver in his voice didn’t have to be faked.
“Nothing much,” said the shaman. “I’ve already done it.”
He bent down and made a small cut in the sole of Tobin’s foot.
Tobin just had time to register how small the wound was before agony struck, sweeping up his leg, traveling the path of the runes and redoubling, redoubling until the only reality was blazing pain.
He couldn’t think. He was vaguely aware that he was screaming, his body arching against the tug of the ropes.
He couldn’t have said how long it lasted, but it faded almost as swiftly as it had come. His arms and legs jerked convulsively with its lingering echoes.
Tobin heard his own voice sobbing. His throat was raw, and his closed eyes stung with tears.
“You think that’s enough?” a man’s voice asked.
Tobin opened his eyes. The chief and the shaman stared down at him. The chief looked a little shaken. The shaman’s gaze was interested.
He hated them, suddenly, fiercely, more than he’d ever hated anyone in his life. The plan flashed into his mind, crystal clear and edged with his determination to destroy these men.
The shaman shrugged. “He’s pissed himself, anyway. Give it a try.”
“Softer,” the chief said, “can you hear me?”
It seemed like a ridiculous question, until Tobin realized he hadn’t been able to before.
“Yes.” His voice was ragged, shaking with sobs. His rational mind, which was slowly beginning to function, told him that trying to defy these men was insane, that his best choice was to give them whatever they wanted. But the primitive part of his soul screamed defiance.
“You seem to know something you think will let the Realm beat us,” the chief went on. “Care to tell me what that is?”
“No!” Tobin rasped. He’d let them threaten him a few times before he gave up.
Without another word the shaman bent down. Before Tobin could do more than gasp in protest, he sliced a small cut in the sole of Tobin’s other foot.
It seemed to last longer, though he had no sense of time. He was barely aware of existing except as a body, a thing, whose only purpose was to experience pain.
Eventually it passed. Eventually he became aware of the ropes cutting into his bleeding wrists, of his own voice, sobbing hysterically now.
They gave him a few moments to recover himself, to become coherent.
That was their mistake.
“It’s the spirits.” Tobin spoke before they could, his voice a husky rasp. “Our priests, they managed to make contact with the spirits in some place they were in. I don’t understand that part of it. But they made some sort of alliance.”
He had all their attention now.
“What can the spirits do to us?” the chief demanded. “If they stay in the Spiritworld, they can no more touch this world than we can reach them. If they emerge, we can trap and kill them.”
Tobin hesitated.
The shaman drew his knife.
The scream that burst from his throat wasn’t faked at all.
“No, no, don’t! They’re coming out! According to my commander, the spirits have figured out some way to fight you. It’s something to do with magic that I don’t understand, but they have to be in this world to make it work, so our priests are going to create a gate, a huge one, big enough to allow an army of spirits to come through.”
The shaman sheathed his knife, and Tobin’s breath shuddered back in a relieved sigh.
The chief was frowning. “How do you know about this?”
“I don’t know much,” said Tobin. “I was assigned to a troop in the area where they’re going to create the gate, and they ordered us out. That’s why they sent some of us to find out where your patrols were, to be sure it’s safe to leave that section unguarded.”
He sobbed again, almost believing it himself.
The shaman’s eyes glittered, but the chief was still frowning.
“Why do they have to move your troops away, simply to create a gate? And why can your priests do such a thing, when our shamans can’t?”
“The spirits insisted we move most of our troops away,” said Tobin. “They didn’t want any chance our soldiers might go dashing into this world of theirs. Evidently this gate can’t be closed in a hurry, and even the possibility that we might invade scared them witless.”
“A portal to the Spiritworld,” the shaman murmured. “That must be why—”
The chief waved him to silence. “Yes, it’s a dream come true. And I don’t trust dreams. They’re often the bait for traps, and you should know that.”
“It’s true!” Genuine panic filled Tobin’s voice. “I’m telling the truth! Don’t—”
“Then answer my other question,” the chief interrupted. “Why can your priests make these gates, when our shamans have never been able to affect the Spiritworld at all?”
“How would I know?” said Tobin.
The chief drew his own dagger.
“I don’t know!” Tobin screamed. “I don’t know, I don’t know! All I heard was that the spirits had to help create them. Something about changing the nature of something or other, but they needed the spirits’ help or permission or something. That’s all I know, I swear it, I swear it. Don’t . . .”
They were no longer paying attention to him.
“That’s why we’ve never been able to reach them,” the shaman said. “The spirits have to change the very nature of the Spiritworld to make the portal possible.”
“So how are we going to get out of the Spiritworld after we’ve killed all the spirits?” the chief asked. “If they have to help make this gate, then—”
The shaman glared at him. “I don’t think you understand how much power the death of so many spirits would give us. If we slay even fifty of them, I could probably make a gate to the moon and back! The Spiritworld is made of magic. Magic they control, which is why they’ve been able to keep us out. Once we have their power, we’ll control that world’s magic too. Creating a simple portal will be easy.”
He turned to Tobin. “When? When will the spirits open this gate?”
“Tomorrow,” Tobin whispered. “Sometime tomorrow. That’s all I know. Please, I swear it.”
“Tomorrow? I’ve got to send word to the camps today!” the chief exclaimed. “If we don’t know when they’re going to open it, we have to be there, ready to charge, all day. You, Softer! You don’t know what time of day they’ll cast this thing? Will it be visible from a distance?”
They’ll open it when they see you coming. And it won’t close till the last of you is gone.
The thought held so much cold satisfaction that Tobin closed his eyes to keep them from seeing it.
“I don’t know when. They only told us the date we had to be gone by. I don’t know if it will be visible, either. I know nothing about magic. I’m sorry, but I really don’t know.”
It would have been suspicious if he had, and the chief was skeptical already.
“If we send all our messengers,” the shaman said, “they can reach all the clans before nightfall. For this, every Duri will be ready to set out before dawn. And if anyone isn’t . . . Well, as long as they got the word in time, they’ve only themselves to blame if they find themselves chan, when the other camps bring back scores of captive spirits. We could try forcing more than one spirit into a body . . . concentration of magic . . . unimaginable . . .” His voice faded to a mumble, but his face was alight with joy and greed.
“Yes, but before we do any of that, we have to fight,” the chief said. “I’ll see to the messengers. You put this one back in the cage. And make sure it’s solid. We don’t have time for games.”
“Of course.” The shaman nodded. “Then I’ll have to make my own preparations. Weapons that can paralyze a spirit, wire and rope to bind them, those things aren’t just steel, rope, and wire.”
“Don’t get too elaborate,” the chief said. “We’ll be leaving well before dawn. And I’m putting you in charge of the Softer. Make sure he’s ready to ride with us, and assign a couple of the younger Duri to guard him.”
Tobin’s eyes flew open, but the shaman was staring too.
“Why drag a captive along with us? We never have before. Once we’ve captured the spirits, it’ll be easier to bring them back here.”
“Several reasons.” The chief was watching Tobin. “First, because I’m not as certain as you are that you can whisk us back from the Spiritworld immediately. Maybe you will have enough power to control worlds. But just getting power won’t make you any smarter, so it’ll take you a while to figure out how to use it. But the main reason I’m taking him along is that this all seems a bit too perfect to me. If we find he’s lied about this gate, then blood trust or no, he’ll die as slowly and painfully as we can manage.”
Tobin fought down panic and closed his eyes again. “I wish I had lied.”
He had no idea what his expression showed, but it must not have been too suspicious; the chief departed, and the shaman summoned a couple of young warriors to return him to his cage.
It only needed two of them now, and that was mostly because they had to carry him, not because he put up any kind of fight.
Even with that incredible agony gone, every muscle in his body twitched and ached. His wrists and ankles were raw with rope burns. His head pounded with pain. His heart pounded with dread.
They were taking him along. They would see the gate and know he hadn’t lied. But in their rush to enter the Spiritworld, it would be simpler and safer to drag him along with them, and Tobin was too weak to stop them.
Once they got into the Spiritworld, either he’d die for their blood sacrifice as soon as they captured a spirit or he’d die from the life drain when they took his amulet to protect their gear from the spirits’ meddling.
If they never captured a spirit (which was unlikely) and they left him his amulet (which they’d need to defend themselves), could Tobin convince the spirits to release him? In the midst of a raging war with the same humans he’d ridden in with? Humans, among whom the spirits didn’t seem to differentiate anyway?
Saving a Realm he would never see again suddenly seemed a lot less important.
His Duri guards snickered contemptuously at the Softer knight’s tears.
Chapter 15
; Jeriah
HE HADN’T BEEN ABLE TO sleep. The manor had been evacuated to lay this trap. Or more precisely, in case their trap failed. But this estate had several advantages, even beyond an owner who was willing to take a chance.
The first was a stone-walled vineyard, where pulling down the wall on the far end of the field created an open cup the priests had declared was a perfect anchor for “the largest gate anyone ever considered—let alone attempted!”
Jeriah would have felt better if the master of experimental magic Chardane had talked into this had finished his sentence with “cast” instead—but honesty was probably better.
The second advantage was a small gulch, not far beyond the manor’s fields, where a stream ran for most of the winter and evaporated in the summer. It was only a trickle now, the better to hold all the men Commander Sower could hide there.
The commander himself, and a band of carefully chosen volunteers, planned to offer a token resistance when the barbarians first charged and then get out of their way. It would be suspicious to leave this important site completely undefended, and the men concealed in the ditch were the Realm’s real defense.
Though if the priests failed to cast the gate, or if the barbarians chose to ignore it and invade the Southlands instead of the Spiritworld, the men Commander Sower had hidden would be lucky to slow the barbarians down—they couldn’t stop them. Of course, the whole Realm army hadn’t been able to stop them.
The manor’s final advantage was a railed walkway on the highest part of the roof. The landholder had probably built it to keep an eye on his fields. Jeriah knew his father would have liked to look down on his land from this commanding position, particularly at harvesttime.
He wished Koryn could have stayed. She’d have appreciated the view, and she had earned the right to be here. But a crippled girl would be no use in this fight, and she’d been forced to concede—leaving Jeriah to stand alone, looking over fields that had once belonged to the landholder’s neighbors and that now constituted the open disputed ground between the barbarians’ camps and the Realm’s border. Jeriah had volunteered to stand watch here. Since he had nothing else to do.
