:Mags.:
It was Reaylis. Mags kept himself from starting, and possibly making a noise, just in time.
:They’re a bit distracted, and they and their talismans are far enough away from you that you won’t alert them. It’s safe for you to speak now. Are you all right?:
He considered that. :Mostly,: he replied.
:I expect you feel as though you’ve been running up a mountain with Dallen on your shoulders,: came the unexpectedly sympathetic reply. :I don’t know if you know your maps of this part of the world all that well, but you are not horribly far from White Foal Pass, and there are a fair number of Heralds and Guard in this part of the world. Dallen has managed to summon a goodly number to your side of the pass. It would make war break out again if they crossed the Border, but if we can get you to them—:
:Aye,: he replied, and then he nearly did jump out of his skin as a cold nose and equally cold . . . something . . . thrust into his hands, then a weight landed on his chest. His eyes snapped open, and once again, he was looking to Reaylis’ blue eyes. The cat had just slipped a very thin, very sharp little blade into his hands.
:Hide that in your boot,: the cat said. And between that moment and the next, Reaylis was gone, slipping between the canvas and the body of the wagon. Mags slid the blade down his ankle just in time. Kan-li unfastened the canvas flaps, looked in, and caught him awake.
“The day renews,” Kan-li said, and he looked at Mags with his head tilted ever so slightly.
“The day renews,” Mags replied automatically, then realized he had answered the kidnapper in his own language.
Kan-li nodded with satisfaction. “Good. It has begun, and the life of our people has taken root in your soul. There will be another drink of the herbs in the afternoon, all things permitting, and perhaps a third tomorrow. Then, the talisman.”
Mags just gazed at him, allowing all of his exhaustion to show.
“Perhaps food and drink, then sleep?” he replied, sagging a little sideways in an exaggerated version of how he really felt.
Slowly, Kan-li nodded. He went out, and came back with a full waterskin and a wooden bowl of soup—at least this time the soup was real soup, with meat and other things in it, and not just broth.
There were seasonings to it as well that his tongue didn’t recognize but that his memory did. It was extremely disconcerting, because he still felt exactly like himself, and yet he had all these . . . bits . . . that were not supposed to be part of him, that had become part of him.
:That was the whole point, idiot,: the Suncat said acerbically.
Kan-li returned, took the bowl, and helped him out of the wagon. To his chagrin, he was extremely wobbly, but at least it didn’t take much to exaggerate his weakness. It took Kan-li’s aid to get to the area they had marked out for a latrine, but at least by the time he got there, his gait had steadied, and Kan-li did not linger but only waited at a distance for Mags to finish and walk back to the wagon on his own. Once he saw Mags could manage alone, he stayed by the fire. He was watchful, though, and it was clear that if Mags made any sort of move that Kan-li didn’t like . . .
Mags got in unassisted and crawled to his nest.
He curled up in it in a position where he could easily reach his boot and the manacles, lying on his side the way he’d been forced to lie when they’d captured him. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
:He’s coming to check on you right now.:
He heard the canvas move a very little. He kept his eyes closed and breathed deeply.
:He’s gone. Start cutting on your bonds now. I’ll warn you if they come back so you can stop.:
The knife was very sharp, and Mags worked diligently at the manacles on his ankles, cutting them almost all the way through, and just leaving a little tag of leather he could readily snap. He had to stop three times as his captors looked in on him, but Reaylis gave him plenty of warning.
:How are you feeling?: Reaylis asked after the third check.
He took stock of himself. :Not bad.:
:Can you fight? You won’t be fighting very long, I expect, but you might need to fight. Franse certainly can’t.:
He took a deep breath and felt a hot, smoldering anger inside himself that he hadn’t expected. These kidnappers and assassins had fully expected that embedding all this stuff about his supposed people would make him turn toward them.
In fact, it was having the opposite effect. And he had no idea why.
He only knew that every bit of him rebelled, utterly, against their culture, their beliefs, and their way of life, even though he couldn’t consciously remember anything about it. He just had the utter conviction that it was all just wrong.
And he knew then that this must have been how his father and mother had felt. Only this complete sense of revulsion could have made them flee so very far, across so many foreign lands.
And he was not going to allow these people to win.
He was going to find out what he needed to know to make them fear Valdemar and Valdemarans so much it would be hundreds of years before their kind would even think about coming there again—and leave them with a lesson so indelible that never again would they dare take a contract to destroy the Kingdom.
He went to work on his wrist manacles. :I can fight,: he said grimly. :And I want to go home.:
It was a good thing that knife was so sharp, and he was very patient. He was literally cutting the leather one fiber at a time. He narrowed his concentration down to feeling how the blade was biting into the leather, adjusting it minutely until he felt a fiber part, listening to the faint creaks and snaps as he worked his way through it.
By the time he had the wrist-cuffs down to the same little stub of leather, the sun was far past noon, and the wagon was entirely in shadow. Evidently they had decided to let him sleep rather than give him that second dose of herbs. Perhaps they thought he was in such a weakened state that the second dose would not be needed until tomorrow.
:Mags! Plans have changed! Snap your cuffs now, and be ready to get to the back of the wagon and jump!: Mags started, and he slipped the knife into his boot. The tone of Reaylis’ Mindvoice was beyond urgent, and Mags didn’t question him. Especially not since, at that moment, he heard shouting erupt outside, and the voices were Karsite.
Damn! He snapped the cuffs, but he gathered up the chain from the wrist cuffs, using the cuffs themselves as a handle for the loop of chain. He might need a weapon after all and that tiny knife, sharp as it was, was not going to do the job. Then he gathered himself under cover of all the noise going on out there, and moved to the back of the wagon.
He peered out through the canvas. The sun was just going down. The camp was ringed by Karsite soldiers, but fortunately they all seemed to have axes, clubs, and swords at the ready, not bows. The three black-robe priests were standing next to the fire, and the chief of them was having a shouting match with Kan-li.
Kan-li’s hands were starting to glow a sullen orange in an alarming fashion, and Mags could see a chain with an amulet dangling from one of them.
Had he changed his mind about further doses of their herbs, given how long Mags had been sleeping?
Or was the amulet also some sort of weapon?
Remembering the insensate entity that had seemed to inhabit the ones that Ice and Stone wore, Mags could well imagine that it was.
Now the Karsite priest’s hands were also starting to glow, an ugly red, as his face turned that extraordinary shade of purple again. The other two were making gestures as the sun dropped below the horizon, gestures that Mags suspected had something to do with demon summoning. Levor was backing up and reaching for a weapon at his belt. It wasn’t a sword; at this distance, Mags couldn’t see what it was.
The priest lunged for Kan-li’s throat, hands glowing the color of old blood.
:NOW!: shouted Dallen and Reaylis together into Mags’ mind, as a white shape burst out of the forest nearest the wagon and hurtled toward Mags. Mags balanced on the back of the w
agon, preparing to jump. Clinging to the saddle was Franse, with Reaylis somehow balanced on his shoulders, both hands buried desperately in Dallen’s mane and his eyes squeezed shut.
Calling on every bit of his Kirball-field skill, and replicating a trick he and Dallen had practiced over and over, Mags launched himself at Dallen’s back at exactly the same time that Dallen skidded to a halt beside the wagon, turned on a single hoof, and hurtled back toward the forest. Mags landed just behind the saddle, and grabbed for the cantle with his left hand, rather than grabbing for the belt around Franse’s waist. Poor Franse was going to have a hard enough time staying on without him pulling the young priest about, whereas Mags could probably hang upside down under Dallen’s belly and be all right.
Most of the soldiers were watching the fight unfold between their black-robes and the kidnappers. The other two black-robes now stood in a ring of dark, smoky shapes that were beginning to resemble the thing Mags had fought. The chief black-robe was struggling against Kan-li, who had tossed the chain of the amulet around his neck and was trying to strangle him with it. The few Karsites who’d seen Dallen burst out of the forest and were assuming he was going to charge across the clearing were caught off-guard when he reversed and leaped back the way he had come. They had begun moving to cut him off, but now he was racing away from them too quickly for them to switch from swords to bows.
There was only one man between them and the forest, a common Karsite soldier who was coming for them with upraised sword. He had a bushy, blond beard, and his mouth was open in a yell. Dallen cut left, and Mags spun the chain in his right hand three times and smashed at the man’s head as if he was sending a Kirball into the goal. The man went down in a spray of blood as Franse winced and whimpered. Poor Franse; he’d probably gotten splattered. The soldier had been wearing an open helm, and the chain hadn’t left much of his face.
:Hang on, Mags,: Dallen said grimly as they raced into the trees, then came out again on a road that wound through the darkening valley. Dallen’s hooves pounded on the clean, hard surface, and the sound echoed off the walls of the valley. :The black-robes are calling their demons now the sun is down, and it’s even odds whether they’ll go after the kidnappers or us.:
:We’ll just see about that,: Reaylis responded, Mindvoice tight with fury. :Come on, Franse! Snap to!:
The Suncat uttered an eerie wail, setting every hair on end. It went on and on, and Mags noticed with a start that the Suncat began to glow too. But not with the sullen red glow of the black-robes’ hands nor the unsettling orange of the kidnappers’—this was a true sun yellow, pure and clean.
And increasingly bright.
Well, they weren’t going to make it hard for their pursuers to find them . . .
:That’s not an issue,: Dalen snapped. :We’re making for White Foal by the fastest route, and that’s the road, and they know it. Our only hope is to outdistance the humans and fend off the demons.:
Franse was hunched down in the saddle, and although Mags couldn’t see his face, he had the impression the young priest’s eyes were still squeezed tightly closed. But Franse wasn’t frozen with fear now. He was . . . doing something. Working with Reaylis, somehow. Maybe feeding that sun glow?
:How far are we?: he asked Dallen.
:Half a candlemark, at my speed. They figured to throw off the Karsites by heading in the least likely direction.:
Well . . . half a candlemark could be an eternity. But Companions were faster than any horse and had more endurance than any ten horses. So it would be the demons that would be the—
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy thing coming out of the darkness beyond Reaylis’ glow, and reflexively slashed at it with the chain.
The demon howled and careened away, back into the darkness. Mags felt a rush of elation. So he could actually hurt these things!
:Sun and iron,: said Dallen. :Franse and Reaylis are supplying the sun.:
Indeed, by this time Reaylis was glowing so brightly they were actually illuminating the road as brightly as if they were carrying a bonfire with them.
Mags got the sudden urge to “join” with Franse and Reaylis in something like the way he was already joined with Dallen. He didn’t even question the impulse, he just held out a mental “hand” and felt it grasped, and through that connection came a warming, pure strength.
Another demon howled up from behind them; Mags sensed it was wailing from the pain of the light and that only a greater pain was coercing it to come at them. But it couldn’t hold up to Mags smashing the chain through it; it actually fell apart as the chain went through it, a disconcerting and somewhat grisly sight. Bits and ichor flew everywhere. The ichor that landed on all of them melted away in the light from the Suncat. It burned with cold where it touched Mags’ skin, but the sensation faded immediately.
:Of course. We accepted the Blessing of the Sun,: Dallen said absently. :Or you did for both of us.:
:You are the Sword of the Sunlord. We are the Shield,: Franse added, then another demon roared in from the side, and Mags fended it off. This one was bigger and stronger; he spun the chain in a figure eight to fend off the claws until he got an opening to slash sideways through the body; and like the others, it exploded into goo and bits.
Not so much Sword as Flail, he thought absently, grateful now that the Weaponsmaster trained them to use anything that came to hand. Him, in particular, given what he was doing for Nikolas.
:UP!: shouted Dallen, and without even glancing upward, he swung the chain in a circle over his head, causing an explosion of demon parts as the creature dove straight into the chain.
Another came up from behind at the same time and actually snared its claws in Dallen’s tail. It howled with pain, and smoke sizzled up from the place where it was caught, until Mags silenced it with a horizontal slash across its middle.
Dallen raced on through the darkness as Mags intercepted demon after demon with either his chain or his fist. The fisted hand took some nasty slashes, but although the cuts burned for a little, it was nothing like the first time he’d fought a demon. There was none of that sense of being poisoned.
He was losing blood, though . . . and he could feel his arms getting tired and sore.
We can’t keep this up forever.
The Suncat’s light was dimming too. He and Franse were getting tired, too.
The demons understood this all too well. They started coming not singly but in twos and threes. Mags was forced to keep the chain in constant motion, weaving a web of protection all around them, but now the demons were able to get through it with a slash or a cut. Mostly, they didn’t connect, but sometimes they did.
There was a glow ahead. Up there, on the road, a light. Torches!
Was it the Guard? Or had the Karsites left an ambush when they came to confront Kan-li and Levor?
:Karsites,: said Dallen.
His heart plummeted. It fell even more when the torchlight glinted off the points of the two or three dozen spears that were pointed in their direction. The Karsites had taken up the standard defense against a cavalry charge—three ranks of spears, butts set against the ground, points pointed at the horse. Mags was so transfixed with horror that a demon got through with a slash to his bicep before he drove it away.
:Hang on!: Dallen shouted, and he put on a burst of speed that made Mags drop the chain and hold to the cantle of the saddle with both hands.
Mags barely had the chance to register Karsite uniforms in the torchlight, when Dallen made an incredible leap, vaulted right over the waiting spearmen, then barreled through the troops behind the spearmen, ramming horses and men with scant regard for either, using everything he and Mags had learned on the Kirball field. His actions took the Karsites completely by surprise; they must have been expecting that once Dallen saw them, he’d either stop or try to turn and run. They certainly had not expected him to leap over their spears, then ram his way through the rest of the troops. Then again . . . while they knew about Compani
ons, they clearly didn’t know what one could do. And Dallen was a superb athlete among Companions.
In moments, Dallen was on the open road again. Mags dared a glance back, seeing the milling soldiers trying to reorganize themselves. They just had not prepared for this.
They certainly didn’t expect what was following their quarry, either.
The following wave of demons hit the bewildered troops, a tide of black and shadowy shapes full of razor claws and needle teeth. Someone tried to fight back, reflexively, and the screaming started.
The demons clearly didn’t care who they tore into, and when the first rank of soldiers attacked by instinct, they turned their wrath on something that wasn’t running away. The Karsites were unprotected by priests. And the black-robes responsible for sending the damned things hadn’t seen fit to leave them with any protection, either. To the demons, these were just easier targets, much preferable to chasing something that hurt them with Sun and Iron. They were perfectly happy—if demons could be happy—to turn their attention to the soldiers.
Mags turned his face away and shut his ears to it as Dallen galloped toward the Border, the road ahead illuminated gently by the golden glow of Vkandis.
And in the distance was the faint glow of more torches.
Theirs, this time.
* * *
It was a flawless autumn day. It would be a little colder in Haven, and according to Dallen, the leaves were in full turn. Mags was sorry he was missing it, but the messages of welcome and relief that had come down to him partly made up for that.
It felt as if he had been away a year, though it hadn’t been more than a moon or so. The Healers here had not wanted to let him go back up until they were absolutely certain that the drugs he’d been fed were all out of his system, his mind was sound, and his wounds were not going to suddenly do something uncanny.
Evidently that was a problem with demon wounds when you didn’t have a Suncat around. Franse and Reaylis had more or less promised to slip across the border every couple of weeks from now on to make sure that there was no one on the Valdemaran side suffering from them, and the Healers had more-or-less promised to bring anyone that was so afflicted here.
Redoubt: Book Four of the Collegium Chronicles (A Valdemar Novel) Page 31
