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

by Robin Lythgoe

  The last of the wagons was pulling away. He ran after it. “Wait!” he called. “There’s one more!”

  “Toss it in the back, boy!” the driver shouted back.

  He heaved the barrel in, caught hold of the boards, and hauled himself up. Wriggling beneath a tarp, he braced against a crate and huddled low. The guards exchanged friendly insults with the driver when the wagon lumbered through the gate. Hooves and wheels rumbled over the bridge, then they struck the dirt road and headed west.

  He didn’t breathe easy for a long time. Not wanting to miss the stream and the bramble hedge, he created a little fold in the tarp that allowed him to see. The driver began whistling, and the steady rocking of the wagon lulled Sherakai into a restless doze. The wagon hit a particularly large bump and his head jerked up, heart hammering. Had he missed the landmark? Dry-mouthed, he cast about the surroundings, then around the wagon beneath his cover. A stone under his knee ought to be uncomfortable enough to keep him awake. He prayed that they hadn’t passed the mark yet.

  The road turned east and wound through the rough, hilly country of the Choke. They passed the small, empty village he remembered from the journey to the Nemura-o. An impression of fear and corruption sent a prickle over Sherakai’s skin. He hugged himself tight, glad when the tarp blocked his view, but he couldn’t afford to hide for more than a minute or two. The wagon hugged the far side of the road. The cheerful whistling stopped until sight of the place fell behind a curve.

  Beyond the village, straggly shrubs spilled out of ravines, but most of the trees had gone for lumber or firewood. When the whistling came again, it was tentative at first, then deliberate. The driver boosted his confidence with a swig from a clay bottle he’d stowed under the bench.

  Sherakai watched the countryside disappear behind them, growing more anxious as each hour passed. A turn in the road once gave him a view of another pair of wagons trailing far behind, but he did not see them again, nor any sign of pursuit. That pleased him, but he dared not let his guard down. He set about gathering a few supplies, working carefully so as not to attract the driver’s attention.

  The barrel he’d carried held coiled sausage links. With the knife Mimeru had provided he carved a hunk of cheese off a cloth-wrapped wheel. Another box provided him with a few candles. It was more than he could have hoped for. He emptied a bag of apples to hold his plunder.

  The driver left off his whistling to sing to himself, which suited Sherakai fine. It didn’t hurt, either, that the man had been dipping rather frequently into his liquid bravery. “Hoy!” the man shouted out and waved his arm wildly.

  Alarm coursed through Sherakai. When he peeked forward, he made out two figures walking in the road ahead, waving at the driver. Stretching up a little further, he saw several more ahead of them. Blessed Saints, the tail end of the company… If he left the wagon now, they’d see him. If he didn’t he’d be caught. Frantic, he cast about for something to use as a weapon.

  “Y’ain’t tired, are ya?” the driver called. “We’ve barely started!”

  “Waiting for you!” came the reply, followed by laughter.

  “You only love me for my wagon,” the driver complained. His volume decreased as he approached the pair.

  “And your atiru. You have some, aye?”

  “Oh, aye.” A patting sound came from up front. “Never go anywhere without it. It’ll cost, yanno.”

  “Not giving you anything until we sample the quality.”

  “Buncha doubters. When’ve I ever given you lousy stuff?”

  One of the men laughed again. “Besides the cheese?”

  “An accident, I swear!”

  The wagon slowed, then stopped. The bed shook as someone climbed aboard.

  “Here, try this.”

  The thump of a pulled cork. Liquid gurgled, then came a long sigh of satisfaction.

  “Good, eh?”

  “You have more.”

  “Of course. Coin or trade, my friend?”

  “Trade. You’ll take this?”

  Whatever was offered, it apparently met with the driver’s satisfaction. “One jug of atiru coming right up.” One corner of the tarp rustled when the driver untied it.

  Tight wound nerves sent Sherakai bolting over the back end of the wagon. He hit the road running. Twenty paces away, a ravine opened in the hillside. He aimed for it and hoped he could run better uphill than the men behind him.

  Shouts and the thud of footfalls announced they’d given chase.

  He scampered up the narrow, twisting bottom of the gully. Rocks threatened to skid out from under his feet or break a leg. The branches of straggly shrubs grabbed at him. A root snagged his foot and he fell hard enough to push a grunt from him. The bundle of supplies fell and tumbled down the hill. Gravel scraped his hands and tore his skin. Hissing in surprise and pain, he scrambled to his feet again. He grabbed a fist-sized rock as he went, he lobbed it at the trio in the bottom of the ravine.

  Even before it hit, Sherakai was in motion. Climbing until he was on all fours, pulling himself up. He slipped again. A low-growing bush stopped him, but not for long. Dirt and pebbles rained down the slope as the roots came free. Searching fingers found a broad rock. With a grimace, he wriggled his fingers and dug with his toes until he got enough leverage to pull himself up. His shoulder screamed. There was no time for mollycoddling it. He scooted around, belly down on the ledge, he hurled more rocks at his pursuers. Several of them struck, eliciting yowls and curses.

  Not to be thwarted, they threw them back. Most of them missed, but one missile struck the ravine wall behind him. A miniature landslide followed. Another rock hit his thigh.

  If he could knock them all out with rocks, things would be much simpler. He threw several, one after the other. Missed twice, curse the luck, and leaped to his feet to climb further up the hillside and out of reach. Debris peppered him from above; rocks thumped at him from below.

  He grasped at a branch and hauled himself up another two precious feet. His other hand caught an edge of rock. He pulled. It came loose and suddenly he was hanging by the branch that could in no way support his full weight. Frantically, he sought a hold with his toes. The rocks gave out beneath him, sending him skidding, flailing, falling.

  He struck the ledge he’d just abandoned and careened over the side, leaving behind more skin as he floundered vainly for a hold. Head over heels, he crashed downward, finally fetching up against a pair of dusty boots.

  His pursuer helped him stand, one fist wound in the front of his shirt. “Not as clever as you thought, are you boy?”

  The wagon driver leaned on his knees, as out of breath as Sherakai after only half the race. Redness marked his forehead, and a trickle of blood oozed from a cut.

  “Who are you?” the third man asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Sherakai clamped his mouth shut and drove a fist into his captor’s face. To his surprise, the man dropped him and staggered backward, using both hands to cover his face. Not wasting any time, he hurled himself back up the ravine.

  A rock slammed into his shoulder, setting him off balance. Another one clipped his head and he collapsed, seeing stars. Rough hands shoved him over on his belly and yanked his arms behind his back.

  “Let me go!” he cried.

  “Shut it and be still.” With brutal efficiency, the third man tied Sherakai’s wrists together and hauled him upright.

  “He broke by dose!” Blood dripped between the second man’s fingers.

  “What are we gonna do with him?” the driver asked.

  His captor dragged Sherakai past and down to the road again.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. His feet wanted to tangle in each other, but he wasn’t allowed to fall. “Let me go.”

  “No? What were you doing in the back of the wagon?”

  “Nothing. Riding.”

  “Why’d you run?”

  He looked back down the road, scrambling for a
likely tale and hating the need to lie. His ears burned with shame. “I—I didn’t want to be whipped. I didn’t mean to be late! I swear!”

  The man snorted and shoved him back up the road. When they reached the wagon, he spun Sherakai around and slammed him against the side. One hand pinned him there. “What’d he steal, Bagger?”

  “Cheese, apples, and a few sausages. A couple of candles.”

  “That’s it?”

  Bagger, the driver, shrugged and held the purloined sack out for inspection.

  “What’d you take this for?”

  “I was gonna sneak into camp.” He ducked his head. “I didn’t know how long it’d take to get there.”

  “You with the cook’s staff?”

  He had only an instant to choose. If he hesitated he’d be no better off than he’d been under Bairith’s tender care. All that mattered was getting home. “Aye. I had to, ah, go to the privy… I got left behind.”

  His captor clouted his ear, then let him go. “Stupid boy.”

  Chapter 46

  They cleaned up his wounds and their own, and discovered the broken nose was nothing more than a bloody one. “The first battle wound,” the driver chortled. The victim didn’t think it at all funny, and ordered Sherakai onto the bench beside the driver. He and the other man took seats atop the stack of goods in the bed of the wagon and watched Sherakai with peculiar intensity. Clearly, they didn’t believe his story and couldn’t wait to drag him to the cook by the ear like an errant child escaped from his mother. They had knives, but no swords, and it turned out the driver had a staff under his seat, which he’d forgotten in the excitement of the moment. More amenable than the others, he offered Sherakai a swig of his whiskey, then snapped the reins to set the horses in motion.

  A single swallow left Sherakai coughing and gasping. “What is that?” he yelped.

  The driver laughed. “Spirits, boy. Atiru, that one. Distilled from the finest wheat and the sourest oranges. You’ve never had it?”

  “No.” He handed the jug back and wiped tears from his face.

  “Ha!” The man laughed again, as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  Not a quarter hour later they rumbled through a stream passing over the road. Most of the dirt had washed away, but large, flat stones kept the road from turning into a mire. Beyond that, a broad field edged by brambles stretched away up a gently sloping hillside. Sherakai watched it go by with lead in his stomach.

  They did not catch up to the company until dark. While Bent-Nose marched Sherakai off in search of the cook, Sherakai settled upon the story of being new to the keep, which wasn’t a lie at all. They found the man at a long table, sweaty face reflecting the light of a nearby fire while he deftly wielded a blade upon the carcass of a roasted pig. While he sliced pork, he barked out orders to the pot boys.

  “This yours?” Bent-Nose asked, pushing Sherakai through the orderly chaos, one hand clamped around the youth’s upper arm.

  The cook glanced at him, then back to his meat. “No.”

  “But, sir,” Sherakai began, “I was supposed to—”

  The cook pointed at him with his blade. “Did that self-important Eshisun send you?” he demanded. No taller than Sherakai and thin as the knife he wielded, his aura prickled with irritation.

  Sherakai took a step back, earning a push from Bent-Nose to keep him in place. “I—I don’t know about importance. I just know I’m supposed to be here.”

  “Aye? Where’ve you been, then?”

  He looked down at the ground. “I got left behind, sir.”

  “Found him in the back of Bagger’s wagon,” Bent-Nose supplied. “He was planning to sneak in so’s you wouldn’t miss him.”

  Slice, thump, slice, thump, the knife carved through the tender meat and tapped the cutting board. “How would I miss someone I didn’t expect?”

  The question stumped Bent-Nose. “You want him or not?”

  The cook eyed Sherakai, head to foot, then pointed with his knife to a pair of buckets. “Slops for the pigs. Make it quick.”

  Bent-Nose sent him on his way with a slap to the back of his head, and Sherakai didn’t see him again. From one chore to the next he went, fetching and carrying, cleaning, chopping, disposing of slop. Four times he tried to disappear, and four times he was intercepted by one of the cook’s helpers and given another job to do. In spite of the chill in the air, he was hot from the constant running. Leg, ribs and shoulder ached, and his tumble down the ravine had given him new bruises to nurse. Dizzy with exhaustion and hunger, he slipped into the shadows between two wagons and crouched down, back against a wheel.

  “Here.”

  He nearly leaped out of his skin. The cook had found him, and the idea of running nearly brought tears to his eyes. Saints, he was so tired!

  The cook held a steaming bowl and a cup out, and Sherakai forced himself to his feet, one hand on the wagon wheel for balance. “Who’s it for, sir?”

  “You.”

  He blinked in owlish astonishment.

  “When did you eat last?”

  “I don’t know. This morning, I think.”

  The cook nodded. “Well, sit down and eat. Bring these back—clean, mind—and I’ll show you where you can bed down. You’ll be no good to me if you pass out or make yourself sick.”

  Sherakai took the bowl of potage and the cup before Cook could change his mind. A hunk of dark bread had been dunked in to the soup. The smell wafting up to his nose made his stomach clench in sudden, fierce need. Some of the liquid in the battered cup sloshed onto his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  The cook grimaced and waved one hand in dismissal as he moved off. “Enjoy it while you can, because tomorrow I am going to run your skinny behind off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hunched in the dark, he wolfed down his meal, licked the bowl clean, then his fingers. Food had never tasted so good. One advantage to ending up with the cook’s staff was the availability of supplies. A discarded bag, hidden behind the wheel of a wagon, held foodstuffs for several days as well as a blanket and a knife he’d filched. He felt a little guilty about taking them, but ultimately it all belonged to Bairith, and since Bairith had taken Sherakai from his home he could jolly well pay for getting him back.

  Cup in bowl and bowl in his lap, he leaned his head back against the wheel. He wanted—needed—to sleep in the worst way, but he was still far too close to Nemura-o pera Sinohe for comfort. The horses were picketed on the other side of the camp but he felt the sense of them rubbing up against his awareness. Temptation or answer? Easier to track, but faster than going afoot, they also offered a complication when it came to taking one without permission. Except that Bairith’s men had taken his horse. Worse, they’d butchered him.

  Remembering opened a floodgate. Unbidden, unwanted, images of the awful slaughter cartwheeled through his mind. He heard the screams all over again, the terrible cries of pain, the crunch and thump and noise of battle. Blood. So much blood…

  Eyes squeezed shut, he thumped his head against the wheel again and again to make the nightmare memory fade. Throat tight, he shivered until the need to move, to get away, drove him to his feet.

  A hand caught his wrist.

  Shadows shrouded his eyes and he struggled against the grip.

  “Here, lad, slow down.”

  His nostrils flared and he recognized Cook's narrow face at last.

  “Are you all right?”

  Sherakai licked his lips and searched for an answer. Any answer. The cook glanced past him toward the wagons, but of course he saw nothing there.

  “I—Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered.

  The man caught Sherakai’s chin in two fingers and turned it this way and that. “You get in a fight?”

  “Just a scrap, sir.”

  “You don’t have a fever, do you? A bad belly?”

  “No, sir.” He ignored the skeptical lift of one brow and clutched his bowl against his chest to still his trembling.

&nbs
p; The cook looked him up and down, mouth pursed, then nodded. “Best you get some sleep. Morning won’t dawdle on your account.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind, sir.”

  “No, I’m practical.” Hiding his kindness behind a gruff exterior, he led the way to a place behind the cooking area and too near the latrines for comfort. “If you are sick or injured or dead you are useless, and I cannot feed this company by myself.”

  The cook procured blankets and soon had Sherakai bedded down on the edge of a group of younger boys. One of them tossed and turned, the rest slept as soundly as bears in winter. Worn out, no doubt. He laid on his side, listening to the restless sleeper for a while, but soon started to drift off. An image born half of dream and half of memory brought him abruptly upright. He wasn’t sure if he’d cried out or not. If he did, no one appeared to care. Drawing the blanket up around his shoulders, he dug his fingernails into his palms to keep himself awake, waiting, waiting as the rest of the camp settled.

  “Focus, Tanoshi,” he reprimanded himself. “Now or later?”

  Now meant he might escape notice, as there were still men wandering around the sleepy camp, while later there would be men posted to look for people like him.

  “Now, then.” Leaving the warmth of his blanket, he crept toward the wagons, keeping to the shadows. “On foot or by horse?” he asked. “Is that really a question?”

  The rattle and clink of an armed guardsmen sent him scuttling underneath the closest wagon. Laughter at one of the fires made him jump, but the dicing soldiers didn’t even look his way.

  When the guard passed, Sherakai continued his journey from wagon to wagon. Of a sudden, his skin prickled. A wave of apprehension washed over him like ice and he froze. Seconds later, the camp erupted into chaos as a dozen horsemen burst upon it. High-pitched yips and barks added to the sense of frenzy. Bright torches carried overhead sent shadows bending and twisting. The tardy guards didn’t need to shout an alarm. Men spilled from their beds, grabbing weapons, shouting questions and orders.

  Fear and dismay in equal portions galvanized Sherakai. On all fours, he shot beneath the intervening wagons and grabbed the bag he’d stowed. Then he scooted toward the rear wheel, where he could get a good look at the path toward the horses. Men ran toward the commotion, but the muddle of light and bodies didn’t produce the clash and cries of battle.