“So we let her go before we’re eaten,” Gallus said. “Get out of our way, you old boar. We’re letting the Raven Mistress go.”
Taliesin’s mood brightened at the sound of the scuffle. Sir Duroc returned to the wagon, climbed into the back, and knelt beside her. Taliesin reached out to him, chains clanking, silently begging for water. He untied a flask from his belt and held it over her face. Duroc brushed away the spider web, his manner gentle, as he lifted her head with one hand and poured water into her mouth. The water was warm, yet sweet, and she swallowed with eagerness.
“You poor girl,” Duroc crooned. “You can’t stay in this wagon a moment longer. Morgrave and Gallus agree; if they can’t force Barstow to see things our way, then I’ll gut the old boar myself.” She kept her mind locked with Duroc’s as he removed the silver chains. “I will show you mercy—I am a knight, not a brute.”
Taliesin licked her lips. “More, please, sir.”
The knight helped her sit and let her hold the canteen. Duroc removed his black cloak to spread over the bodies and sat beside her. “Your mother is Princess Calista and your father was John Mandrake, the swordsmith. I am told you have more royal blood than the Draconus princes combined. Some say you are the last sha’tar in the realm. John Mandrake, they say, was descended from Korax Sanqualus, the Raven King, and that is why Ringerike wants to be with you.”
“That’s right,” Taliesin said.
Gallus joined them. “We must get her out of the wagon and give her a horse, Duroc,” he said, and helped Taliesin out of the wagon.
“We must give her the Raven Sword,” Duroc added.
Taliesin smiled. “You both are kind. I will not forget this.”
“I will give you my horse. I should have done so days ago,” Gallus said. He took her arm, Duroc beside them, and led her to a grove of trees. Taliesin was surrounded by soldiers seated in the grass, eating their meager rations. The four horses drank at the creek, bordered with tall reeds. A raven perched on a stalk, its black eyes watching. Taliesin had a sneaking suspicion it was her friend, Zarnoc, a skilled wizard. She was to be rescued! She looked away from the raven and sat on the grass.
“I told you not to release her,” Barstow grumbled, as he munched on a chunk of moldy cheese. “Sertorius said Almaric paid General Akyres Folando of the Hellirins to fight for him. Darklings and Wolfen. It is a disgrace to our kind, to be sure. I will not have it said by anyone I was unkind to the Raven Mistress. Perhaps we should let her go.”
“Chivalry before dishonor, gentlemen,” Taliesin said. She had won over all four; they were going to let her go. They would give her the Raven Sword and a horse, and keep her escape secret, for as long as possible.
“Rest a bit before you leave,” Sir Morgrave said. He stood beside Taliesin and pushed a lock of black hair from his eyes. He had not shaved in days and his beard grew thick. “The army will be on the move soon.”
“Tend to her needs,” Barstow snarled. “Use your cloak to shield her eyes from the sun, Gallus. Morgrave, fetch the Raven Sword. Let her hold it, for it will give her strength and comfort. Duroc, find her something to eat. Now!”
Gallus spread his cloak on tree limbs to form a makeshift pavilion. He knelt beside her, used his flask to wet a rag, and with tender strokes, washed the dirt from her face. Morgrave brought the Raven Sword, wrapped in a cloak, to Taliesin and placed it on the ground at her side. The sword let out a soft whine. Duroc led Gallus’ horse, a brown Morgenstern stallion, to the trees and tied the reins to a limb. He removed food, wrapped in a cloth, from the saddlebag and placed it within Taliesin’s reach. Gallus took her hands and wiped them clean as best he could, his smile wide as she opened the cloth. She sunk her teeth into a piece of dried beef. It was tough, and she took her time chewing and swallowing each mouthful.
“I feel terrible about what we have done,” Barstow said. “Sertorius should be ashamed for treating his cousin this way. No woman should have to ride in a gut wagon. Rub her ankles, Gallus, and get the blood flowing.”
“A little more water?” Morgrave asked as he held out his flask, which she took and kept for her journey. “Please, forgive us, Raven Mistress. How can we make it up to you? Tell us, and we will do whatever you ask.”
“Make sure I have provisions in the saddlebags. Fill your canteens with water, for I want all of them,” Taliesin said. “The Garridan men are mariners, you know, not mainlanders, like us. They do not share our traditions. Nor do they have our good manners.”
“No, they are not like us,” Sir Barstow said. “We’re Maldavian men.”
“I am sure we would find royal blood if we looked into your family trees,” Taliesin said while Gallus rubbed her legs. “All four of you are chivalrous. And we know how many children King Magnus had, before and after the Magic Wars; I would not be surprised to learn we are related to one another.” She wrapped the rest of the food in the cloth and gave it to Duroc, who placed it in a saddlebag. Her fingers were eager to touch Ringerike, and a rush of energy filled her.
“I do sense a type of kinship,” Sir Barstow said. “But we must wash your feet before you depart.” The pot-belled knight with the thick red beard removed her boots and set them aside. As he washed her toes, he sang a country song; “This little birdie went to market. This little birdie stayed home.”
Taliesin tolerated their attention, while the other soldiers stood, collected their spears, and set out on the road. Not one to carry a grudge, she felt compelled to repay the knights for their kindness. She didn’t care if they responded this way because of her magic; instead, she felt sorry for them. A nasty scar along Morgrave’s left cheek made his eyelid droop at half-mast. She lifted her hand, touched the scar, and watched as the flesh healed.
“What are you doing?” Morgrave asked.
“Healing you, sir. It is payment for your help.”
“Your scar, Morgrave!” Gallus pointed at his friend’s face. “The fair lady has healed you, as though it was never there. This is a miracle.”
Morgrave raised his hands to his face and started to weep while the other three knights shed their tunics and armor. Barstow shouted at the driver, ordered him on, and the gut wagon rolled forward. Not one soldier or officer questioned the four knights as they removed their gear. Taliesin tended to each man and healed their battle scars. She encouraged them to show her everything. When they had not a stitch on, she laughed and said, “Lay on the grass, gentlemen, and go to sleep. You have earned it, and I must be on my way.”
While the naked knights slumbered, Taliesin dressed in Gallus’ clothes—he was close enough to her size that his garments and boots fit. Eager to touch Ringerike, she removed the cloak from the sword, heard its soft whimper, and hugged the weapon against her chest. The sword remained in its red scabbard, attached to a harness she quickly slid into and fastened around her waist. Ringerike was more than five feet in length and hung vertically across her back, quivering ever so slightly; it was happy to return to her. She climbed onto Gallus’ horse, and as she rode into the trees, she sang, “This little birdie went tweet, tweet, tweet! All the way home.”
Thousands of soldiers on the King’s Road started to sing the same song, “All the way home, yes, all the way home.” Taliesin laughed, and with a nudge of her heels to the horse’s flanks, she galloped into the trees, leaving the army behind. Ahead, she noticed a raven seated on a low branch, and singing in a man’s voice. “Tweet, tweet, tweet, said the little bird.”
“Zarnoc!”
The bird peered down at her with amber eyes. “What an abominable song,” he muttered. “Why would you teach it to soldiers? You make them sound like fools.”
“It’s about time you showed up,” Taliesin said as she rode under the limb, able to see the raven’s underside. She admired his long, glossy, tail feathers, caught him lifting one clawed foot, and at the last second, leaned to the side to avoid a splatter of white goo. “Be of use, wizard! Make certain no one follows me. After all, you owe me a favor.”
“Do I? Do I?” Zarnoc squawked. With a flap of his wings, he flew into the air.
“Yes, you most certainly do. I rescued you from Eagle’s Cliff. I can’t say you did the same for me, so you definitely owe me one!”
Ducking under a branch, Taliesin pressed her heals against the horse’s flanks. He trotted forward, free from the weight of his former heavy rider and the glare of the sun, just as eager as she was to get away from the army. She listened for shouts of alarm, but heard only the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker. A good sign, she thought, for birds fell silent when they sensed danger. As Ringerike thumped her back, excited to be with her once more, the familiar form of the black raven appeared. He glided past her and let out another loud squawk.
Unsure what Zarnoc meant, she took it as a sign someone followed, and with hell on her heels, kicked the horse into a gallop and raced through the tress.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
Taliesin followed a ridge where the pine trees became sparse and the ground hardened from lack of moisture. In front of her stretched miles of rugged terrain with rolling sand dunes, a wide variety of cactus, and the occasional palm tree. Zarnoc had vanished somewhere along the path. The horse descended the escarpment, kicking up stones and a cloud of dust in his wake, and reached the bottom where a blast of heat greeted them. The sun had baked the landscape until large cracks had appeared in the ground. Erindor was an inhospitable place, though the red lizards perched on a nearby rock seemed to enjoy their sunbath.
She drank sparingly from the stolen flask and was tempted to create an oasis with a pool of water for her horse, but feared any use of magic might be noticed. Although she saw no caravans or Erindor soldiers across the broad horizon, she suspected bandits watched from adjacent dunes; however, Taliesin rode for miles without seeing another person and finally spotted a small town in the distance. She wondered what it was called, for the Erindorians had beautiful names for their towns and cities. Khimesset, Nador, and Ourzazate were three of her favorites. The capital, Shaemone, lay far to the southeast on the coast, and as far as she knew, it remained untouched by Prince Sertorius’ army.
The horse slowed its pace as they neared the town, though she sensed the Raven Sword wanted her to ride on, wanting her to be cautious of other humans. Taliesin, though, felt compelled to approach and gazed at the blue-domed mosque, admiring its unique design. Square-shaped buildings painted white with orange, tiled roofs were bunched together along narrow streets. Balconies framed by slender pillars looked over lush gardens which meant the town had a large water source, allowing them to irrigate. There was a low wall around the city, and she was able to see the market, bustling with people trading. In the past, she accompanied the Raven Clan to trade weapons in small villages for spices and fruit like the curious zutan—a type of peach with bright red skin and a green interior filled with chewy seeds. Through a large archway, she was able to see brightly-colored material blowing in the breeze, and the glitter of scaled armor and curved swords; the town was defended by Red Cobras, and she pulled back on the reins, no longer as anxious to approach the town’s main well.
An old man in a dark purple cloak appeared on the path. He held a white staff in his hand, which he leaned upon as he watched her approach. On his shoulder perched a scrawny raven, its beady eyes boring into her.
“Good day, mistress,” the old man said.
Taliesin stiffened at the sound of his melodious voice. She sensed the stranger had strong magic. Ringerike quivered in warning, and a friendly greeting caught in her throat as the breeze carried his pungent odor, reminding her of a rotting corpse. For some reason, she felt she knew him, though she didn’t know where they could have met. Ignoring him, she rode on. A shiver slid down her spine as his pet raven let out an angry hiss, and on impulse, she glanced over her shoulder. The old man and his ugly bird had vanished without a trace.
“That’s not good,” Taliesin whispered. “Ringerike, I fear that was a sorcerer. I thought I killed everyone in the Eagle’s Magic Guild. Who was that? Do you know?” The answer came to her in an image; a younger version of the same man, dressed in dark purple, staff in hand, stood on the steps to a white marble palace. The ugly raven perched on his shoulder, and the man stared at her with strange silver eyes. She gasped as she recognized Heggen, the god of the underworld, and his pet raven, Vendel. “What are they doing here? Are they following me?”
But she already knew the answer before Ringerike confirmed it. The gods of Mt. Helos were not her friends; her clan had prayed to Heggen, but he had not helped when the Wolf Clan attacked. If Heggen had come to look for her, she had no doubt he had been sent by Ragnal, the god of war. The Wolf Clan prayed to Ragnal, who had two pet wolves, Cano, a werewolf, and its son, Varg, the first man to be bitten and turned into a Wolfen. She swallowed hard, heart thumping fast, and again glanced over her shoulder.
Two boys on a camel rode past, shouting for her to move aside. Her fears faded as she thought of the annual camel race in Shaemone, which brought thousands to the capital by the sea. Osprey had told Taliesin about the race when she was a child, but the former Raven Master was dead. He would never tell her another story, and his death was Ragnal’s fault as much as it was the Wolf Clan’s. If the gods meant to waylay her, she would be ready for them.
Taliesin stopped at the well and dismounted. Locals gathered there to fill large clay pots, and they didn’t bother to talk to her as she walked the horse to a trough. As the horse drank, she filled her flasks and thought about her friend, Rook, the Captain of the Black Wing guards who protected the Raven Clan. Rook, the eldest son of Duke Dhul Fakar of Erindor, had told her the people of Erindor were humble and kind. A small girl with her mother paused to smile at Taliesin. The mother took one look at Taliesin and tucked her child behind her skirts. It would have been nice to have Rook as a companion on the journey since he knew the native tongue and might have been able to converse with the people. But the captain was at Penkill Castle in Maldavia, to the north, with the rest of the Raven Clan.
“I would rather fly home than ride,” Taliesin muttered as she climbed into the saddle, rode away from the well, and left the town behind. “I want to see my clan, Ringerike. I miss Rook, Wren, and Hawk. And I miss Roland.” The sword responded with a soft whine. “You miss him too? I’m glad.”
The Raven Sword eagerly showed her an image of Sir Roland Brisbane of the Knights of the White Stags of Fregia. She had not seen her lover in a long time, and as she studied his rugged face, she wondered if he thought about her as well. She’d met Roland at Raven’s Nest, the former home of the Raven Clan. Master Osprey had sworn the large, muscular man into the clan and given him the name Grudge to match his personality. He was assigned to watch Taliesin while the clan scavenged on battlefields, and she had fallen for the gruff, rude man. Grudge soon rose to the rank of captain in the Black Wings. Osprey had sent her away when the Wolf Clan, aware she was a natural-born witch, had sent soldiers to fetch her for Prince Almaric. With Grudge, Hawk, Rook, and Wren, they’d traveled to the Salayen Desert to retrieve Ringerike, the ancestral sword of their clan, and the most powerful magic sword in the realm. They had been joined by the Ghajaran gypsies Tamal, his sister Jaelle, and the four Nova brothers, as well as Zarnoc, and it had proven to be a very dangerous quest. Pursued by the Wolf Clan, Prince Sertorius, and the Knights of Chaos, her group had learned to depend on each other to survive.
During the journey, Grudge had revealed his identity as Sir Roland and his true purpose in joining the Raven Clan—King Frederick Draconus had sent Sir Roland to locate her and the Raven Sword, and to bring both back to Padama. They had parted on bad terms when the Eagle Clan found them in the desert. She had left Roland and the Eagle legionaries to fight with the Wolf Pack, and she had blamed him for being a loyal King’s Man. Roland was a King’s Man; his Grand Master, Banik Dzobian, was the cousin of Duke Fakar of Erindor. She knew Roland and Banik, and most likely the duke, were at Padama defending Tantalo
n Castle from Almaric’s army. If she ever had the chance, she meant to apologize, for she now realized he was loyal to his king, a rare quality these days, and had followed orders. Roland had not meant to hurt her, but her temper had gotten in the way, and she regretted their quarrel.
“Please think kindly about me, Roland,” she said in a soft voice. “If any birds are nearby and can hear me, tell Roland I love him. Let him know I am sorry and will make it up to him.”
A lone yellow heron glided past overhead, as if eager to deliver her message, and Taliesin followed it with her eyes, until she spotted dark smoke on the horizon. Ringerike whined, letting her know someone was in trouble, and she urged the horse into a gallop. She rode for several miles, compelled to find the source of the smoke, and noticed an oasis to her left. At a whinny from the horse, she approached the water hole, and slid out of the saddle. The horse trotted to the water, dipped his nose, and started to drink. Clutching the reins, she turned to study the smoke, carried toward her on a capricious breeze, and wondered if the Knights of Chaos were in the vicinity. She had no doubt Sir Barstow and the other knights would be searching every village and town in the nearby area. At the flutter of wings, she reached for her sword, and spotted Zarnoc, still in raven form, as he drifted down to land on her shoulder.
“‘Dahkla’ is the name of the town,” Zarnoc said. “It’s easy enough to read your thoughts, and yes, the Knights of Chaos were there looking for you. Sir Barstow is keen on recapturing you, Taliesin; you embarrassed him, and he is no more forgiving than the prince he serves. Unfortunately, the people of Dahkla were in his path. Your horse has drunk its fill. I suggest we search for any survivors.”
“Zarnoc, a while ago, I thought I saw Heggen on the road.”
“What? What did he look like?”
“An old man in a purple robe who held a staff. A scrawny raven sat on his shoulder. Is it possible Heggen is a spy for Ragnal?”
Queen of Magic Page 2
