“I won’t stay much longer than two days,” Ninianee assured her. “I have to keep going.”
“Three days at most, then.” She stood aside to admit Ninianee to the kitchen where six oil-lanterns provided illumination now that the evening was coming. The room was large, warm, and old-fashioned, with large spits suspended in the maws of three massive fire-places. Only one contained burning logs, although the other two had fires laid, just awaiting a struck spark to add their heat to the room. Offering beams hung from the rafters, one for each meal of the day. A long trestle table went down the center of the room, flanked by a number of short benches and stools. The woman motioned Ninianee toward it. “Choose a place to sit. I’ll cut you a little of the shoat and give you a tankard of hot wine. When you’ve eaten, you can go out and groom the ponies and feed them. There’s grain in the tack-room.”
Ninianee felt saliva fill her mouth, and her stomach gurgled. “Fine,” she said, and chose a stool near the end of the table.
“I haven’t done any baking for three days, so you’ll have to make do with travelers’ bread. If you soak it in the wine or broth first, it isn’t too bad.” She bustled over to the fireplace, a wedge-shaped knife in hand. “I’ll cut the slices off the haunch,” she said as she reached for a platter on which to place the pork.
Ninianee took a pinch of salt from the open cellar on the table and offered it on the beam to Nyolach, the Unexpected and Monianaj.
“Someone taught you properly,” approved the woman, adding a third slice of pork to the platter.
“My father,” said Ninianee, thinking of how often in the last months she had neglected the Meal Rite.
The woman set the platter down, and then a blue crockery plate. “Take what you like.”
“Thank you,” said Ninianee earnestly, reaching for a knife and a simple two-tined fork and sliding two of the three slices onto the platter. “Everything we had went into the river.” She cut a section of the pink flesh and bit into it, thinking nothing had ever tasted so good.
“Ah, you are hungry,” said the woman. “Having a bout with the River Dej will exhaust the strongest of us. Well, eat it up and when you’re done with my ponies, I’ll see you have more food.” She poured out a tankard of hot wine. “This will warm your bones for you.”
“Thank you,” said Ninianee around her chewing. She reached for the tankard and washed the pork down, then cut another slice.
“You’ll sleep soundly tonight, I warrant.” Pouring herself a tankard of foamy beer, she went on, “What did you say your name was?”
“Agninean,” said Ninianee, using a name she had invented for herself during her three-day trek down the river.
“Your mother must have been a magician, to give you such a name.”
“I understand she was,” said Ninianee.
“A bit self-important, don’t you think? using a part of a goddess’ name for you? Just asking for trouble, it seems to me. Not that it’s my business, but I’d think you’d want a more personal name than that.” The woman laughed and drank. “I’m Herebarzit, and this is Meadow-Stage House.”
“Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Herebarzit,” said Ninianee, unable to keep from yawning. “Excuse me.”
“Finish your pork and go tend to the ponies before you fall asleep,” Herebarzit recommended. “I’ll keep the meat warm and soak some travelers’ bread in broth for you when you’re through.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Ninianee, pushing herself to her feet and taking a last, long draft of wine. “I’ll be back when I’ve finished with the ponies.”
“There’s a lantern in the stable, and a safe hook to hang it on. The rake for the stalls is on the east wall, and there’s a shovel, too, if you should need it, and a barrow. The old bedding goes on the midden behind the stable. Brushes and combs are in the tack-room, and medicated grease for their hooves is on the shelf above the brushes and combs.” Herebarzit was all business now, and she ticked off the points of information on her stubby fingers. “There’s a long trough running through the stalls for water. It’s in need of cleaning, but that’ll wait until tomorrow.”
“I’ll attend to it then,” said Ninianee as she went toward the door and stepped out into the gathering twilight, doing all she could to keep from missing Doms.
6. Returnings
The armed and masked men had appeared out of nowhere, storming down on the company of travelers with blood-curdling shouts and howls, brandishing their weapons and trying to injure the horses and mules as a sure way to halt Kloveon’s and Erianthee’s escort, as well as the wagons they guarded. They rushed at the wagons, whooping defiance, and tried to slash the hindquarters and hocks of the mules, but were frustrated by the protective-bubble-spell Erianthee had cast when they left Tiumboj and had renewed every morning since. That hardly stopped the attackers from continuing their assault on the out-riders, or trying to find weak places in the spell.
Erianthee shouted out “Gremmi bontaj!” as a throwing-spike flew past her ear to thud into the front of the first wagon, narrowly missing the driver. She quickly recited the formula to strengthen the spell that guarded them from harm, even while she saw the escort begin to form into a wedge-formation, readying to answer aggress with aggress. “How many are there?”
“I make it nineteen or twenty,” said Kloveon as if the number didn’t trouble him. “They’ve got poor horses and old weapons.”
“And are protected by spells?” Erianthee asked.
“As we are, I would suppose,” he replied, shading his eyes to get a better look. “Twenty-two.”
She felt her heart sink as she looked over the nine men of the escort. “You mean twenty-four, or five,” she said, watching the escort draw weapons as they got into a defensive formation.
“Hold!”’ Kloveon shouted, after a swift glance assured him that Erianthee was unhurt. Drawing his sword and preparing to fend off the masked men, he urged his horse into the van of the wedge. “Escort! Stop them! Keep alert to spells! Strike them from behind if you can! Their spells will be weakest there.” He held onto the reins, pulling his blood-bay onto his hind legs as he readied for a counter-charge. He looked up at the mid-afternoon sky, trying to calculate how long a delay this skirmish could be. Here they were on this remote stretch of road, six days out from Tiumboj and four leagues from the next town. He knew they were dangerously exposed and would have to drive the attackers off or face being left in this out-of-the-way part of the merchants’ road to Otsinmohr, damaged, wounded, kidnapped, or dead.
“Kloveon!” Erianthee shouted, swinging her copper-dun around to join him. “I can deflect their spells. You’ll need that, at least.”
“Stay back!” He gestured wildly. “Keep safe!”
“But I can fight with you. I can cast a confusion spell, or a fright spell,” she protested. She was angry that her bubble-spell had left her vulnerable – although it was always a risk to a magician when malice was involved – and now wanted to confront the men who challenged them.
“You can do us good if you’d conjure up something to send them away, never mind countering their spells – scare them into retreat!” he called back, a grim amusement in his voice as he kicked his blood-bay into a gallop, swinging his sword around to the ready.
As much as she wanted to follow him and the armed men of their escort, Erianthee hesitated, worried that she might still be at risk for injury. If only the attackers weren’t masked, then she might have some idea of who they were and why they were after them. She pulled back on the reins, feeling the copper-dun worrying the bit in his efforts to join the others. One of the wagons halted, and Erianthee shouted to the driver to keep moving.
Not far ahead on the road the escort clashed with the attackers, their combat furious, a tangle of swords, dust, and horses, accompanied by shouts, curses, and the sharp clang and scrape of metal on metal. The driver of the lead wagon slowed his pair of mules to a walk. “Don’t want to get into that mess, Duzeon – take my advice
.” He pointed up to a flight of arrows that had been slowed by her renewed spell, but still fell in profusion among the wagons and their teams. The reserve horses and mules pulled restlessly as the fight erupted ahead.
She looked down at him. “What do you mean?”
“Better they shouldn’t see you – in case they’re after you,” said the driver, his long, weathered face revealing a degree of calculation that she found unnerving. “You need to be out of sight.”
“Why would they be after me?”
“Who knows?” the driver answered. “But all of the Porzalk Empire knows about your talent, and from what I hear, they all want to command it for their own purposes. If you could conjure up an army from the Spirits of the Outer Air, you would be the equal of any army. You can’t pretend that you wouldn’t be a prize for highway robbers, or local landholders, or Riast’s enemies.”
She shook her head, unwilling to believe this. “They’re probably just desperate men who lost too much in the conjure-storm and have had to resort to robbery for survival,” she said, and doubted it as she spoke. With so many masked men attacking, it suggested something more than desperate country-folk. There was something organized and malign about the masked men; they had grim purpose about them and their fighting style seemed experienced rather than random, despite the poor horses and the old weapons. “How would they know they have me?”
“There is little enough traffic on this road as it is, and now, each company of travelers is marked from their first steps. News of travelers spreads quickly, and everyone hears it. You’re bound to the west, and you have an Imperial escort, which tells them you’re worth protecting, and therefore worth capturing.” He slapped his hands together. “Help your guards. Get into the wagon with your servant. Quickly now. Berianaj will protect you. He’s a solider, and he knows his work.” He cocked his head toward the rear of the wagon. “I’ve got a few tricks, too.” He smiled harshly. “Get going, Duzeon, before there’s more trouble.”
Erianthee hesitated only for three heartbeats. “Do you think – “
”Go,” he said, and reached into the foot-well beneath his driving seat to pull out a snubbed crossbow with a double string. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I’d rather fight,” she said, watching the roiling confusion ahead of them. She decided to cast a fear-spell on their adversaries.
“Go,” the driver repeated, and brought up a handful of double-spiked quarrels.
Reluctantly she moved back in her saddle, up against the cantle, and tugged the reins to back the copper-dun, using her heels and calves to keep him going. As she came abreast of the third wagon, she signaled the driver. “I’ve been told to get inside,” she said.
“I’ll secure your horse,” said Berianaj, pulling his pair of mules almost to a halt and reaching for the copper-dun’s reins as Erianthee swung from the saddle into the driving-box of the wagon, taking hold of the edge of the wagon’s roof to keep from falling. “Go through to your maid. She’ll have weapons for you both, or anything else you may need.”
“I will,” said Erianthee, hearing the shouts and clash of the fighting grow louder.
She tugged the heavy canvas at the back of the driving-box aside and ducked into the wagon’s interior.
Rygnee faced her with a studded mace in her hand, ready to strike. She gave a shriek, dropped the weapon, and laughed nervously. “It’s you. Oh, Duzeon.” Her voice trembled. “Thanks to Hyneimoj, the Ineffable! I was afraid . . . ” She shuddered, bent to retrieve her mace, and pulled back the heavy curtain that covered the window. “What’s happening.”
“We’re under attack,” said Erianthee, her voice grating to her own ears. “The escort is up ahead, engaging the – ”
”But who’d want to attack us, and why?” Rygnee demanded.
Having no answer for her, Erianthee reached for her own chest. “Are my daggers in here?”
Collecting herself, Rygnee said, “Yes. If you want them?”
“I do. And my ympara-oil.” She was already working the lock on the chest. “I’ve been told to summon up some help.”
“You’re going to cast a protective spell!” Rygnee exclaimed. “Oh, good! What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” said Erianthee. “Except hold the two vessels steady. I can’t put them on an offering-board, not with the wagon swaying. Don’t let anything drop.” She took the daggers out of their scabbards and slipped them into the sheaths in her sleeves, then she reached for the alabaster vessels and handed them to Rygnee. “You’ll have to put the mace down.”
“Oh. Yes,” said Rygnee as she sank back on the upholstered seat. The wagon rocked a little as it moved slowly forward. She tittered nervously. “What kind of men are out there?”
“Masked ones,” said Erianthee, opening the vial of ympara-oil and pouring a little out into the alabaster vessels. “Hold them steady, mind.”
“All right, all right,” said Rygnee, trying her best to concentrate on the task, while she listened to the clamor of fighting drawing nearer.
As she intoned the first phrases of the Summoning Rite, Erianthee thought that three months ago, she would never have attempted it, let alone in a moving wagon with combat going on immediately outside. The time in Tiumboj after the conjure-storm had forced her to extend her talent, and now she found it comparatively easy to focus herself on calling up magical support in the form of mindless dread to launch at the enemy. Her recitation went on, and in a hundred heartbeats, she felt the stirrings that indicated the nearness of Spirits of the Outer Air, and beyond them, the gods and goddesses of the Great World. She had never manifested a god or goddess before – not deliberately. Before she had only conjured up Spirits of the Outer Air to represent them. Whatever her visionary Shadowshows had created, they were not the same as a full manifestation of a god or goddess. It wasn’t that it couldn’t be done, she reminded herself. After all, that’s what Riast had wanted from her. She shook off her reservations, mustering her courage, and continued, “I call upon Zaythomaj, the Retributionist, to come to our aid against these unknown foes. We have done nothing against them, and yet they attack us.” She blinked as a wave of queasiness went through her, making her light-headed and a bit disoriented. Taking a moment to regain her balance, she realized that this summoning-spell was demanding more of her than any other conjuration she had attempted in the past. It seemed as if a great, impalpable wind was blowing from somewhere deep within her skull. As she steadied herself, she saw the air shimmer and a misty face form, adding the suggestion of a body as it swung out of the wagon. Erianthee continued to chant, making sure she pronounced every word correctly, her head humming as she did. “Let them be visited by terror and panic, by fright that turns their vitals to cold water, and by the need to flee.” She was vaguely aware of sudden shouts and howls unlike those that had arisen from the fight before now, and then a high, keening wail that was wholly otherworldly resounded, accompanied by horrified screams. The sound of frantically galloping horses reached them even as the mules squealed and minced in distress.
Rygnee went white as she listened, but dared not move; her limbs felt rubbery and she struggled to gather her thoughts. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see what was happening outside, for the shouts and wails filled her with a kind of cold, slimy fear that she had never before experienced. “Hurry,” she whispered to Erianthee, who was half-fainting with the demands of the manifestation.
“Our preservation redounds to your glory, Zaythomaj, the Retributionist. Your aid in our time of need reaffirms your talents, and your strength. We approve your aid and are gratified by your manifestation.” She made a last, complex gesture as if gathering the neck of a huge sack together for tying, pronouncing the last two words of the dismissing of the summoning-spell with an authority that surprised her. The air sizzled and a shape that was just at the limit of visibility hovered before her, then winked out. Erianthee fell back on the padded seat, her face the color and texture of new cheese.
Taking Erianthee’s hand, Rygnee chafed at her palm, but got no response. “Duzeon. Duzeon. Please.” She began to weep, as much because the worst of her terror was over as because there was nothing she could think to do to help Erianthee.
“Don’t languish. Don’t . . . die.”
The wagon picked up speed, as the company reformed and resumed its journey. The wagon floundered along the rutted road, the mules at a jog-trot, and its rocking tipped Erianthee over on her side on the padded seat, but there was no sign of a response – she might have been a large doll for all she reacted to this shift in position. She remained, relaxed but not wholly limp, on the seat while Rygnee cried, not knowing what else to do.
* * *
Heavy mists had spread in from the River Dej, blotting out the near-full moon and lending an eerie shine to the thickening fog. Ninianee had taken shelter in a small copse of umbrella-willows that were just starting to sprout spring leaves, and so provided limited protection from the damp of the night. Once she had built up a fire, she took the last of the bread and cheese from the sack of provisions Herebarzit had given her, insisting that Ninianee had more than earned it. She had added a small skin of water and a plain cooking vessel as well, and with these, Ninianee set about breaking up the last of the hard bread into the sections of cheese she had melting in the pot, but her mind was on the next night, the first night of the full moon.
Never had she felt so alone! She had no certain idea where she would be, or what she would become. She would have to hide her clothes before she Changed, or ruin the only garments she had. But then – more difficult still – she would have to remember where the clothes were when morning came, or face the world naked. That was what troubled her the most – the realization that she could end up losing the few things she had. She stirred her simple meal with the small knife she had managed to keep while in the river, and tried to determine how far she was from Vildecaz Castle. The mists distorted everything, hiding all but the nearest objects, and concealing much of them in pale wisps. Touching her tight, red ringlets, she could feel burrs and brambles caught in her hair, and knew she must look like a wild creature even more than she did while she was Changed to an animal.
Agnith's Promise: The Vildecaz Talents, Book 3 Page 16
