by Jack Massa
“Hello,” she said. “May I join you.”
“Of course.” He gestured to the ground nearby.
Amlina sat down, feet tucked at her hips. She stared out over the sea.
“I am glad you and Karrol and Brinda have come. I think we will be leaving, very soon.”
Eben nodded. “Then you have decided to sail to Larthang—and not give the Cloak to the winged lady?”
“You heard about the drell then?”
“Oh, yes. To be honest, she came upon me in Fleevanport. I worried that she might have read my mind and that was how she found you here. But she told me this afternoon it was not so.”
“You spoke with her today?” Amlina asked.
“Yes. I went looking for her in the woods.”
“And what do you think of her?”
“A strange and beautiful creature, to be sure. I find it hard to understand how she can fly, even with the speed of her wings.”
“The bones of her people are said to be hollow, like those of birds,” the witch answered. “And of course their wings tap some magical current of the Deepmind. But I meant, what is your impression of her character. Can she be trusted?”
“Oh.” Eben laughed. “I’ve not much experience judging the characters of witches. But, since you ask, she reminds me of you, Amlina, when the klarn first joined up with you: unsure of herself, feeling over her head, but determined nonetheless. Do you think her trustworthy?”
Amlina sighed. “I don’t distrust her. Her heart seems pure, to my reading. But I do not think I will give her the Cloak. Delivering it to Larthang feels like a thing I must do myself.”
Eben grinned. For all her physical weakness, and whatever the doubts she might be suffering, Amlina had spoken with the same stubborn determination he had noticed in Trippany.
“So. Are you looking for a crew?”
The witch bowed her head with a smile. “You would be most welcome. I know Glyssa and Draven and Lonn would feel the same. Especially Glyssa. She misses her absent mates very much.”
“All of us love Glyssa.”
“Yes. But for her it is more than that. When she had the psychic wound from being enthralled, she healed herself by the spiritual disciplines of magic. But it was not the love of magic or power that filled the void in her heart, it was love of her klarnmates.”
Eben stared at the sea, reflecting. When he turned back, Amlina was gazing at him with round eyes—reading him with deepsight.
“Now,” she said, “I think both you and I have holes in our hearts that we must fill. For me, it is a raging void, an evil hunger brought on by the blood magic. For you … I am not sure.”
Eben shrugged. “Nor am I. Perhaps just a lack of purpose. Or maybe, like the others, I miss the old klarn.”
His eyes drifted to the beach thirty yards below. That was the place where they had disbanded and set the klarn-soul to rest. The sea had looked much like it did this afternoon, soft water tossed by a chill wind. It was a few days after they settled in at the farmstead. Their Gwales raiding ship was anchored in the inlet. They burned the vessel to make a proper funeral for Meghild, the pirate queen who had sacrificed herself to allow the witch to forge the Mirror Against All Mishap. Meghild’s body was already gone of course. But they had taken the cloak she wore and spread it out on the deck with a Gwales-forged sword and spear and the queen’s share of the treasure won on the voyage. After bidding Meghild farewell, they had raised the sail and put the ship to the torch. As it drifted out to sea, Wilhaven the bard sang a dirge to honor the queen he served. A few days later, he sailed from Fleevanport, bound for the north to fulfill his vow to sing Meghild’s saga in all the halls of Gwales.
Amlina, it seemed, was remembering that day too. “In retrospect, it might have been a mistake to burn our ship,” she murmured.
“There are other boats,” Eben answered. “We can acquire a dojuk in Fleevanport.”
Amlina’s eyes kindled. “You have decided to sail with us then?”
“I am leaning that way, to be sure.”
“I am glad. But it would be unfair not to warn you: finding a boat will be just the start of our problems. This voyage figures to be dangerous, with many powerful people chasing us. How it will end, I cannot even guess.”
Eben grinned. “Now you are trying to tempt me.”
Six
At sunset they walked back toward the farmhouse. As they reached the trees, Amlina spotted Trippany, swooping among the high branches as though searching. When the drell spotted them, she darted down.
“Hurry!” she cried, flying near. “Hurry! They are coming.”
Amlina halted, rigid. “Who are coming?”
“Larthangan troops, marching up the road. They have found you! They have come for the Cloak!”
Amlina broke into a run, Eben on her heels, Trippany overhead. The witch did not doubt the drell’s report. For days now she had sensed the powers seeking the Cloak were drawing near. Now they were upon her. She ran past the farmhouse and up a wooded hill. From the ridge at the summit, one could see a long way down the road.
Stopping there, she peered down the slope. A column of warriors moved up the trail—Larthangans for certain, judging by their banners, armor, and long coats. A few in the front of the party wore the brightly-colored robes of witches. No pipes or drums were beating, but otherwise the intruders made no attempt to conceal their approach. They would reach the farmhouse in a few minutes.
Amlina whirled and hurried down the hill, Eben and Trippany following behind. They burst into the house through the front door—to find Glyssa and the others in the great room, preparing dinner or else resting by the fire.
“My friends, we must leave,” Amlina told them. “Soldiers are coming.”
The Iruks looked at one another for just an instant, then scrambled to grab weapons.
Trippany dropped down, landing directly in front of the witch. “Will you give me the Cloak? It must go back to Larthang.”
Amlina hesitated, then emphatically shook her head. “I will take it there myself.”
She shouted to her mates. “I suggest we go out the back and down the cliff, then along the beach to Fleevanport. Eben says we can find a boat there. I intend to sail to Larthang. If you’ll come with me, then hurry. Pack only what you can carry.”
Glyssa, Draven, and Lonn were already charging up the stairs to fetch their gear. Kizier hastened to the door of his room on the first floor. Karrol and Brinda had armed themselves but now stood by the fireplace, uncertain.
“Will you two come with us?” Amlina asked.
The sisters exchanged glances, then both nodded. “We will,” Karrol answered, “at least as far as the port.”
Trippany, wings beating furiously, bounded up and down in front of the witch. “This is madness. You cannot escape! There is no time. And there are too many for you to fight.”
“We shall see.” Amlina ran for the stairs.
In their bedroom, Draven was tying bed furs and clothing into a bundle. Amlina dragged a hinged wicker basket from the closet. From the drawers under the bed she took a gown, her witch’s robes, jewelry, trinkets, tools, small sacks of gold. No time to pack much, but there were certain things she would not part with.
Trippany had followed her and now flew about the room in agitation. “Amlina, you must know this is senseless. They are already here. They will surround the house.”
“I know that,” Amlina said, picking up the black and silver Cloak.
Trippany settled onto the floor. For a moment, Amlina feared the drell might attack her and try to snatch the Cloak away.
“These men will certainly deliver the Cloak to the Iron Bloc,” Trippany said quietly. “They must not take it.”
Amlina gripped the fabric. “They will not take it from me, but neither will you.”
Trippany winced, wings quivering. “I have not the power to take it from you. So I must ask: if you escape, do you swear on your honor as a witch to deliver this Cloak to the
House of the Deepmind?”
“Yes,” Amlina replied. “I see this as my rightful path, as counseled by the Deepmind. It is my duty, and I will follow it as best I am able.”
“Then we are allies,” the drell said. “I will delay them as long as I can.” With a humming of wings, she swooped from the room.
The farmhouse loomed dark and silent in the twilight. Smoke rose from the chimney and lamps burned behind some of the slatted window shutters. Admiral Pheng scanned the outbuildings and fences and the woods beyond, but detected no sound or movement.
“You are certain?” he murmured to Arkasha.
Beside him, the witch nodded, jaw tight, eyes narrow. “The emanations are strong. The Cloak is very near.”
Dressed in a quilted coat of orange and gold, Arkasha held a black silk cord in her fist. The cord was tied around the waist of the thrall girl, who stood beside her mute and dull.
The flotilla had entered the harbor of Fleevanport that morning, a growing atmosphere of excitement and urgency apparent among the witches. Traces of the Cloak had grown stronger as they crossed the sea from the Iruk Isles, according to the reports channeled from Minhang through the thrall. Arkasha was certain the prize was near.
Wasting no time, Pheng lowered boats and landed on the docks with a detachment of a hundred troops, armed with pikes, swords, and crossbows. Marching through the city, the landing party was challenged, first by town watchmen, then by Tathian guardsmen in steel armor, carrying truncheons and swords. Pheng judged his troops more than a match for the Tathians, but a battle would have cost both lives and time. Besides, his orders were to make war on the natives only as a last resort. Instead, Pheng and his lieutenants attended a hastily arranged meeting with the colonial governor, a tall gray-beard with a cautious, wily demeanor. The admiral claimed that he sought the arrest of a certain renegade Larthangan witch believed to reside in these parts. Pledging a peaceful withdrawal whether they found this witch or not—along with a not insignificant bribe of Larthangan gold—was enough to secure the governor’s cooperation.
By noon, Pheng and his party were on the march. The young girl, black cord around her waist, walked in the lead, her mind a blank, her steps directed by the powerful circle of witches far away in Minhang. Past the outskirts of the city, they climbed into hills and thickening forest. Pheng kept a sharp eye out for possible ambush, but the only people they passed were native Fleevaners—stout folk wrapped in heavy furs, riding in sleds pulled by the large deer they called lamnoccs.
Pheng had put aside his doubts and feelings of futility about the mission. He was obeying the Duke’s orders, following where the witches led. He could not be faulted. Besides, he had to admit to a certain incipient excitement at the thought that they might actually win the precious Cloak at last.
Now, out of the shadows, a soldier hurried up to the Admiral and bowed low. Pheng had sent him to scout the edges of the property. He reported seeing no one about, but hearing noises within the main house. The door facing the road and another at the back were the only exits.
Pheng deployed his troops, sending ten archers to cover the back door, ten more to station themselves along each sides of the farmhouse. The remaining men he ordered to spread out along the road, facing the front door. He waited as the crossbows were drawn with levers, arrows slipped into place. Beside him, Arkasha and her apprentices watched with eager, greedy expressions. The thrall stood with shoulders slumped, the cord still fastened to her waist.
When the troops were in position, Pheng waved a hand. He and his men moved forward quietly. He planned to come within a few paces, then shout out an order that those inside surrender.
Suddenly the door creaked open. Pheng gestured and his men to dropped to their knees, bows pointed.
In a blur of motion, a figure appeared in the doorway.
“Do not shoot!” A female voice called in Larthangan.
Pheng rose to his feet. “Hold fire,” he commanded.
The drell flew to within several yards and sank to the ground. She stood erect in her silk gown, leggings and slippers—a remarkable sight in this barbaric land, even aside from the insect wings.
The Admiral was not surprised to see her. Arkasha had mentioned the likelihood that the winged woman would be here. The fact that she had come out to parlay was a reassurance that she had not yet taken the Cloak.
On seeing her, Arkasha and the other witches hastened forward to stand beside the Admiral.
“Greetings to you, sister,” Arkasha called.
She and the others bowed ceremoniously to the drell, who returned the gesture. Arkasha then lifted her hands, moving them about with some fingers stretched and others bending. The drell observed this, and began a like series of gestures. Witch signs, but to Pheng they were gibberish.
“Speak aloud, if you please,” he called gruffly. “I am in command here.”
The mouth of the winged lady pulled back with disdain. But she answered. “Very well, my lord. I am Trippany, envoy from the Archimage of Larthang. I greet you and ask your mission here.”
“You know it well enough. Do not try to dissemble. Your very presence is proof that the Cloak is here.”
The drell looked puzzled. “How is that so?”
At Pheng’s shoulder, Arkasha spoke: “We know of your mission. Indeed, our superiors in Minhang were able to trace your movements. That is part of what led us to this place.”
This disclosure seemed to trouble the drell. “Then you know my orders come from the Archimage herself. If you oppose me, then you and your superiors must be deemed renegades.”
“Enough!” The Admiral barked. “We will not debate the politics of the House of Witches.”
The lady’s wings vibrated, and she lifted from the ground. “Indeed, the Cloak is here. But the situation is in hand. Your assistance is not needed and your incursion unwelcome. The Cloak will be returned to Larthang. I state this on my honor.”
“Not good enough!” Pheng shouted, losing his temper. “I am under orders to return to Larthang with this Cloak . I will not be thwarted by one unarmed witch, who might or might not have true authority.”
Hovering, the drell answered icily. “My mission is from the Archimage. In this matter, she is supreme. Not even the Tuan can overrule her.”
Pheng grabbed a bow from the man beside him, and pointed it at the drell. The archers in line followed his lead.
“With all respect due to the Archimage, I tell you to surrender the Cloak to me. If you refuse, I will treat you as an enemy.”
The drell rose higher, hovering now above the level of Pheng’s head. “And I tell you, with all due respect, that I cannot allow you to have the Cloak, and will prevent it by any means in my power.”
Admiral Pheng waited no longer. “Shoot!” He yelled, and triggered the bolt.
Caught by surprise, her eyes wild, Trippany thrust up her arms. A ball of white light appeared and swallowed her. At least one arrow pierced the sphere, and Pheng might have heard a cry of pain from within. The rest of the bolts clattered and rattled as they struck the farmhouse wall. By then the drell had vanished.
“Reload,” Pheng commanded, and handed the bow back to the soldier he had taken it from.
Along the line, his men placed their bows on their thighs, fitted iron levers in place, pulled back and locked the powerful bowstrings. Looking up from observing their actions, Pheng’s eyes were drawn back to the open doorway of the farmhouse.
A pale-haired woman emerged, dressed in a quilted gown and open, fur-trimmed coat of Larthangan design. Behind her came five warriors in leather and furs—barbarians, grim-faced and armed with throwing-spears.
Amlina walked a short way from the doorstep, just enough for the Iruks to fan out beside her. Draven, Lonn, Eben, Karrol, and Brinda held swords and spears at the ready.
Peering through the open doorway, Amlina had observed the last moments of Trippany’s confrontation with the troops. The drell had
bought Amlina and her mates the time they needed. She only hoped Trippany had not been wounded or killed before escaping through the spaceless portal.
Straightening her shoulders, she called aloud to the intruders.
“I am Amlina, witch of Larthang. I charge you now to leave this place in peace.”
The crossbow men had finished reloading. The troop commander stared at her belligerently.
“I am Admiral Shay-Ni Pheng. I charge you to surrender the Cloak of the Two Winds.”
“I have the Cloak and will return it soon to Minhang,” Amlina answered. “Your aid is neither needed nor wanted. I give you one last warning. Go in peace or risk all of your lives.”
“I will dally no longer!” the Admiral shouted. “Give me the Cloak, or you and your companions will be slain.” He lifted a hand and the row of crossbows rose up.
“Wait!” Amlina lifted both her arms, then shouted. “Now, Glyssa!”
At a darkened window upstairs, a silver light appeared. In the pulsing glow, Glyssa could be seen, standing with right arm raised high and left hand pointed. She wore the black and silver Cloak.
On instinct, Amlina had entrusted her with the task. Glyssa had wielded the Cloak before and Amlina judged that, by emerging from the house without it, she might put the troops off-guard.
“Shoot!” the Admiral ordered.
Bolts flew. Amlina and the Iruks dove for the ground. Blinding light burst from the window above as Glyssa summoned the freezewind. The air sang, then shrieked with abysmal cold. A glittering curtain blew across the yard and into the woods. Caught in mid-flight, arrows froze and fell pattering to the ground.
Cries of pain and dismay erupted as the wind engulfed the Larthangans. It blew over them for the duration of seven heartbeats, the noise fading as it passed into the forest.
In the dimming witchlight, Amlina spied the troops in retreat, running or staggering, some fallen to the ground. A few, who had caught the full force of the magic wind, crouched or stood rigid, transformed into lifeless statues of ice.
