Blood and Shadow (The Mage's Gift Book 1)

by Robin Lythgoe

  “No,” he frowned and pulled the blanket up over his head, refusing to open his eyes. “I’m still sleeping.”

  “Suit yourself, but I’m going to pull this blanket off, and your bare backside is going to get cold in a real hurry.”

  Sherakai’s eyes shot open with the sudden realization that he was warm and dry. Rain drummed on the canvas overhead. Although it was not quite light yet, he could see it falling in steady, angled sheets beyond the door flap. Still windy. Further away, the river churned and rumbled its deep bass.

  Crouched next to him in a wet cloak, Araki waited in amusement.

  “Where are my clothes?” Blankets fell away as he sat up, introducing his skin to the cold, damp air all over again. He shivered.

  The tall guardsman held them out, folded neatly and astonishingly dry. His boots and brigandine, also dry, sat on the ground next to him.

  “How’d you do that?!” Sherakai exclaimed in wonder.

  “I didn’t, the captain did.”

  “He dried everyone’s things?”

  Araki just lifted a brow. The men stowing their gear nearby kept their eyes on their tasks. After a moment, Sherakai realized the inattention was deliberate. Heat suffused his face for the third time in recent memory, chased by a wave of guilt. It would have taken a considerable amount of energy to dry all the wet gear. Nayuri did not have it to spare. A fire risked drawing the attention of their pursuers, and wet wood made a stellar signal. Could Nayuri make wet wood burn? Somehow, Sherakai doubted it. From all appearances, he was the only one warm and dry…

  “He—he shouldn’t have done that.”

  “But he did. Get yourself dressed. I’ll bring you something to eat.” The lanky man rose and headed outside. The others sat in a close circle under a canvas stretched between branches to make a roof.

  Left to his own devices, Sherakai considered his predicament. A quick glance beneath the blanket affirmed that he hadn’t even been left his undergarments. Dragging a hand over his head, he discovered his butchered hair all over again. What remained was thick and had a tendency to wave. The damp made it crimp further. What must he look like?

  A commoner.

  A little sound croaked out of his throat. Was the road to manhood paved with misery and humiliation? Eyes stinging, he shoved himself upward, letting the blanket fall in a heap at his feet. Commoners didn’t have the luxury of private rooms and servants. He dressed as fast as he could, trying to act as though the situation didn’t bother him. When he shoved his feet into his boots, he discovered his mother’s letter. It, too, was dry, but it stuck together a bit when he unfolded it. Water had smeared the careful lettering, but it was still legible. He skimmed over it, but his eyes caught on one line, and he recalled Nayuri telling him that the performance of one’s duty counted, not the duty itself.

  Thoughtful, he folded the letter to make a smaller packet. As if that would keep it dry.

  With it tucked beneath his tunic, he donned his boots and armor, then rolled the bedclothes. He did not look around. As he tied the cords, Araki returned with a cup of steaming tea and a plate of dry bread, hard cheese, and jerky. He crouched close by, but didn’t speak as Sherakai perched on his bedroll and wolfed the food down. By then the guardsmen were saddling up and preparing to move out. The canvas came down as Sherakai tended to his own mount.

  “Where’s the captain?” he asked, and was told that he’d join them shortly.

  Suwa started them off, east away from the river and through the trees. They had not gone far before Nayuri appeared. Sherakai jockeyed for a place next to him, which was easier said than done. There were orders and information to pass along, and it was a while before he had the man’s attention.

  “Thank you, Captain, for drying my things.”

  “It was my pleasure. It’s going to be another long day.”

  “Are we still being followed?”

  Nayuri nodded curtly. “Don’t worry, the Indimi-o can outpace them.”

  “Yes. Yes, they can.”

  Within minutes, they swept into a run, and for a little while Sherakai lost himself to the rhythm and power. The speed of their passage drove the rain into his face, but he’d tied his hood up and belted his oiled cloak tight. It was bliss to be dry, and the exercise of riding kept him warm. Up and down the hills they flowed, over the streams, graceful as deer. Sherakai soaked up the joy Aishe felt to run, run, run… It was beautiful, and if they had nothing to worry about but running, they would have left their pursuers far behind. Still, a few short hours after the sun rose, a scout came with news of a second group. They altered their course to avoid them.

  At noon, the scouts brought word of a third group blocking their path. Again, they changed their route, putting them in a position that allowed the first group to intercept them. Every time one of the patrols was spotted—and they made no real effort to conceal their presence—Nayuri changed direction. Slowly, the noose tightened.

  Moving at a quick trot, Nayuri consulted first with the scouts and Suwa. There was a great deal of pointing and hand signs, but Sherakai caught only occasional words. They made no sense. Tall in his saddle, the captain studied the surroundings before turning to point at specific members of the party. The others fell back to make room for them, and another hurried discussion took place. Sherakai admired their ability to ride and sign and plot courses at the same time.

  The troop passed down into a wide ravine overhung with tall trees. Abruptly, those men chosen by Nayuri peeled off and turned up the stream bed. Leaning low over his horse’s withers, the captain dug in his heels. The tawny gold stallion leaped forward as though shot from a bow. The other horses sped after him without pause. Up over the ravine’s edge they charged, manes and tails streaming. Aishe flew over the ground, heart pumping, feet flying. Sherakai didn’t know the details of the plan. He had strict orders to stay as close to the captain as possible, and that is what he did. His heart, too, beat wildly, half in fear, half in exhilaration. In and out of the trees they wove, ducking low to keep from getting scraped off the saddles by low-hanging branches. The leather they wore protected arms and legs, but a few stinging blows landed on exposed faces, leaving bloody trails. Relentless rain beat down upon the backs of the riders, sending up a mist to join the clouds of water cast up by the feet of the horses.

  When Nayuri directed them into another ravine and slowed to a walk, the Indimi-o were breathing hard. Steam left their nostrils in great gouts. They tossed their rain-soaked manes and flicked their tails, the skin over their shoulders and haunches shivering with remnants of their excitement. The pace slowed even further as the way became more steep, until Nayuri’s stallion scrambled up onto a wide, level stretch of stoney ground bordered round about with trees. Matted gold leaves carpeted the forest floor beneath them. Here and there patches of the bright purple starcap shone in stark contrast. It shouldn’t be far now until they came out of the rugged foothills and descended to the plains where they could run and no one would catch the Children of the Wind.

  Nayuri slipped from his saddle and walked to the edge of the drop-off to study the forest below. But for the rain and the sound of heavy breathing, all was still.

  Sherakai eased himself to the ground to rub Aishe’s nose, then made his way around the stallion, checking for injuries. He kneaded the great beast’s muddy, feathered legs, then lifted each hoof to examine minutely. With his knife, he pried a stone free from where it stuck, too close to the tender frog. He murmured to the horse while he worked. As he did, the other Indimi-o drifted close, one even pulling away from the guardsman trying to tend it.

  The man lifted his hands in surrender. “Who am I to get in the way of true love?” he asked, and their companions laughed.

  With a crooked smile, Sherakai set about caring for the rest of the animals, the quiet conversation of the men drifting to him in bits and snatches. When he finished his task, he moved among the horses, scratching an ear here, a chin there, talking to them, praising their speed and endur
ance. Beautiful, beautiful… After a bit, he drifted to the trees and sat down on the roots of one of the biggest. The horses gathered around him blocked more of the weather than the leafless tree did. Leaning his head against the trunk, he closed his eyes.

  A sudden jangle and huffing startled him awake, and he saw the other guards had rejoined them. Bloody, dirty, and tired, they sank unsteadily to the ground under the trees nearby. Ekiwo wore a crimson-stained rag around his head. Blood crept down his neck from beneath it. Hansa dropped to one knee and hacked his broken crossbow apart to use the butt for a splint on Gensai’s arm. The hound, limping and sporting cuts on head and shoulders, dropped to the ground with a heavy sigh.

  On hands and knees, Sherakai went to the dog’s side, murmuring soothing words as his fingers explored the hurts. From the pouch at his waist he brought out needle and thread. His mother had perhaps expected him to use it on his clothing, but with it he stitched two ugly cuts closed. He applied salve to them, then stilled. Six of the guardsmen had turned off at the ravine. He counted once, then again, feeling light-headed.

  “Where are Henuhe and Omakan? Beseni?”

  “Beseni is checking our trail.” Nayuri’s voice was taut. On one knee, he worked to repair a torn strap from one of the packhorses’ gear.

  “And the others?”

  No one answered right away. Chakkan finally spoke, his voice thick with emotion, his expression bleak. “They’re not coming back, Sherakai.”

  “They’re not? Are they scouting?” He hoped against hope, his breaths coming faster and faster.

  Chakkan got abruptly to his feet, stalking past Sherakai. “No, fool, they are dead.”

  Chapter 31

  Hunched in his saddle, rocking to the perpetual motion of his horse, Sherakai wrapped himself in a silence no one could penetrate. The nightmares Tasan’s death had brought revisited him in broad daylight. Over and over he saw the hacked pieces of what had once been a living, laughing, loving human. An active and clever imagination provided a multitude of grisly causes for his death. Sometimes the faces of the dead guardsmen overlaid his brother’s, and sometimes he thought he heard their screams as they were cut down, though he did not know the details of how they died. He didn’t want to. It was horrible enough knowing that for him they would never breathe again. For him they would never see their loved ones.

  Where Nayuri led them in the hours following those deaths Sherakai did not know. Struggling between the waking dreams, the countryside through which they passed made little impact on his senses. He neither ate nor drank, and when the troop stopped for the night, he automatically set to taking care of the needs of the Indimi-o. Nayuri did not interfere, but watched the youth’s every move.

  The task carried Sherakai through the preparation and consumption of a barely-warm meal. He would not have accepted it, but Nayuri insisted and Sherakai had no will to argue. When he finished, he walked once more through the small herd, touching each animal, but saying nothing. Making his way to one of the two tents, he crawled inside and buried himself in the poor protection of his blankets.

  It was not long before someone else crept inside to arrange his own bedroll next to Sherakai’s. After a minute or two, he hitched closer until his shoulder lay against Sherakai’s back.

  He stiffened. “Please leave me alone,” he requested in a too-polite, too-hoarse voice.

  “Shut up,” Chakkan grumbled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  A funny, strangled noise came from him. He didn't say anything more. Instead, he listened to his friend's breathing, but could not relax. Hours crept by. The rain stopped, yet water still dripped from the trees. The sound drew him along, senses stretched into the quiet of the night. It was almost like floating.

  Until something didn’t fit.

  He sat upright. Eyes wide but unseeing, he strained to hear.

  “Kai?” Chakkan whispered.

  “They’re here,” he breathed.

  “Who is here?” Nayuri’s soft voice came from the other side of the tent and Beseni sat up, blankets rustling.

  “He’s dreaming.”

  Sherakai shook his head hard. “I d-don’t know who. Three, no four. There,” he pointed, trembling violently with dread and confusion. He flinched when Chakkan touched him, hand traveling down his arm to ascertain direction in the darkness within the tent.

  “East.”

  They were all silent, straining to hear anything.

  “I’ll go look.” Beseni eased free of his blanket, then slipped beneath the edge of the canvas.

  “The rain stopped.”

  “Sshh…”

  Minutes crept by, punctuated only by the slow, irregular plop, plop, plop of water tumbling from rain-wet branches. Just when Sherakai was certain he’d been dreaming and only embarrassed himself with his outburst, he caught the sound of the hound growling. “There!” he whispered, his heart leaping all over again.

  “What?”

  “I heard the dog.”

  The silence was questioning.

  “I didn’t hear anything.” Chakkan shifted again, uneasy.

  A hiss and a thump came from outside, followed by the sound of something, someone, falling. Nayuri was out of his blankets, sword hissing free of its sheath, before the body even stilled. “Chakkan, take him west, then south. That log you were looking at. Keep down.” And then he was gone.

  Chakkan shoved Sherakai’s boots and brigandine at him, picked up his own things, and scrambled to the side of the tent. “This way.”

  The leather armor flapped and thumped as Sherakai pulled it on. He crawled after Chakkan, heart in his throat. “Should we help?”

  “We are.” Grabbing his friend by the leather covering his shoulder, Chakkan dragged him out of the tent.

  Thick clouds still covered most of the sky, barely letting any moonlight through. Outside the canvas, the pair stilled briefly. Running was out of the question. They scuttled behind the cover of one tree, then another, moving crab-like on hands and feet.

  “Down!” Sherakai hissed, and flattened himself. Something whistled past his head and he heard a grunt. “Chakkan?”

  “This way.”

  “Are you hit?”

  “Shut up and run.”

  Before he’d levered himself up again, a shadow flew at him, then right over without the slightest hesitation. He didn’t even have time to utter a startled squeak before it vanished, and something crashed through the undergrowth a dozen feet away. A wet, tearing sound made his belly roil, but Chakkan pulled on him and they hurried on, bent double. The clash of blades nearby prompted a burst of speed. Another growl tore through the night, and chaos erupted. Fire flared up and the horses, already restive, whinnied and pulled at their tethers. Shouting broke out and the fight began in earnest.

  “Don’t you dare,” Chakkan snarled when Sherakai started to veer in the direction of the Indimi-o. Fist in leather, he jerked him back on course.

  “I have to help them!” He pushed at Chakkan’s arm, to no avail.

  “Do it and I will slug you. This way.”

  He cast a distraught glance after the animals, then let Chakkan drag him away. Wet branches stabbed at them. Sticks and rocks bruised their feet. Twice, Sherakai slipped on matted leaves, only to have Chakkan yank him up again. The second time, he wrenched his arm hard enough to elicit a gasp of pain. It went ignored, and Chakkan bullied him up and over a log, shoved him down flat behind it, then pushed him into a narrow gap.

  “Inside! Get back as far as you can.”

  Partially hollowed out, the log had enough room for Sherakai and little more. The interior was damp and poorly shaped for holding a body. Chakkan dropped his sword to rake leaves frantically over the opening, over Sherakai.

  “Chakkan, what are you doing?” he hissed, the sound desperate. He tried to grab his arm. “You can fit in here, too. Please—”

  He slapped Sherakai’s hand away. “Lay down and keep quiet.”

  “I won’t stay here without you!” />
  “You must.”

  “Chakkan!” He wanted to yell at him, but that would only draw unwanted attention and he could not risk it. Frustration and fear clogged his throat.

  The thump of running feet came from the direction of the tents and Chakkan grabbed his sword. He shifted to brace himself, only his bare feet visible, there one moment and gone the next. An instant later a double thud knocked debris free inside the log, showering dirt and bits of rotten wood down upon Sherakai’s head and face. It was followed by the whoosh and clang of swords engaging. The log rocked, then stilled but the brush nearby crackled under the impact of bodies crashing through it. The noise filled Sherakai with terror—the sound of angry hissing and grunting, the resonation of metal on metal, the thump of fists and feet. His hand clamped around the hilt of his knife. His sword was beneath him. Useless.

  Body tense, he wavered between his fear and the need to help his friend. Just as he was about to roll free and join the fight, there was another solid thump to rock the log and a slow, groaning slide. The interior grew even darker and the old wood rocked again as another blow struck, then another. For a moment, stillness reigned, then the log shook again under a new weight, and the harsh sound of rasping breaths came to Sherakai’s ears.

  He lay there, shivering with indecision. Please, Maker, let Chakkan live… His armor, donned hurriedly and still unbuckled, dug into his side. Every breath was redolent of rotting wood. Fungus. Wet earth. What if Chakkan needs me? What if he’s dead? By the Saints, you are such a coward, Sherakai! Try as he might, he could not get a sense of anyone nearby the way he had earlier. Hateful magic! Why did it desert him now?

  Slowly, oh-so-slowly, he eased the leaves away from his face and moved his hand inch by careful inch—until it came in contact with something solid. He jerked back in surprise, then reached out again, holding his breath lest it give him away.

  A body, yes, but was it Chakkan or their attacker? The feel of cold, wet leather told him nothing. If he could get his knife free without drawing attention he could stab the man, and if he didn’t kill him outright, he’s surely do some damage. On the other hand, he didn’t want to kill his friend. And if it was Chakkan who’d fallen, there was the fellow practically sitting on top of him to contend with.