by Ron Root
Lost in thought, he nearly ran into Smithy as he burst out the armory door, a pack on his back. Was the coward running? “Going someplace, Smithy?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
His answer was curt. Ever was the man ill-mannered. One who didn’t even have the grace to show the proper deference due an obvious superior.
He spat, barely missing the Smithy’s boot. “I’ve just learned about your mother. It must be as they say—that fruit falls close to its tree. You’d best hurry away witch boy, before we make known your crime.”
His piece said, Quinn stalked away, feeling good for the first time that day. The Chevaliers knew how to deal with Smithy’s ilk. Perhaps it was time he speeded matters along.
Marooned
Goodricke looked out at the shattered remnants of their boat. Bobbing beside it was the netting that held their belongings. “Look, our gear! Praise the gods, we still have our supplies.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Jarek cautioned, “That netting looks torn.”
Goodricke went over to retrieve it. Jarek was right; one entire side of the netting had been shredded. He pulled it ashore and started removing their gear, one piece at a time, examining each as he did so. The food bag was all but destroyed; they had barely enough for a single meal. And all but one water bag was gone, but the rest looked undamaged. He spotted Jarek’s bag floating a few feet from shore, and waded out to rescue it. Stuffing it and anything else salvageable into the torn net, he dragged it up the beach. “We’d best pitch camp and build a fire. Everything’s soaked, especially us.”
They found a flat dry place farther inland. Dry brush was plentiful, and they soon had a fire blazing. A closer inspection of their salvaged gear revealed their map and parchments still intact, as was his tritant.
Jarek’s shivering continued. Goodricke had him change into warmer clothing and crawl under Goodricke’s bed blanket—the only one still dry. He parked him near the fire. The heat soon did its job, and Jarek’s shudders subsided.
By the time he finished cooking their meal, the Magus was asleep. Thinking nourishment more important than rest, Goodricke roused and fed him. Still feverish, as soon as Jarek was done eating, he dozed off again.
Damp clothes and night air had Goodricke shivering too. To make matters worse, the lurker had torn the remaining clothing bag. Not only was the remaining bed blanket soaked, so were his clothes. He wrung them out, donned his wet coat, built up the fire, and strung a line to dry his clothing on. Wrapping the damp blanket around his shoulders, he hunkered down as close to the flames as he dare, watching the steam rise off the sodden gear. After rotating his blanket’s wet side to the fire a few times, he had it mostly dried.
The evening offered one bit of good news. The skies had cleared. He got out his tritant and took a reading. These new settings would give them a decent bearing, even if cloud cover tomorrow prevented him from updating them again soon.
Strange-sounding animal calls filled the evening air. He stared into the darkness but spied no creatures. He heaped more fuel on the fire. Whatever was out there would likely fear fire. He huddled under his blanket shuddering; whether from dread or cold he wasn’t sure. What he did know was that he’d get little or no sleep this night.
Jarek couldn’t stop thrashing. Delirious, his only awareness was of burning heat. He drifted in and out of consciousness. He awoke drenched. Had his fever broken? The burning sensation had eased, as had his muscle pains. Grateful, he drifted back toward slumber.
Jarek!
Who dared disturb him? Go away.
Jarek, it’s Lavan!
Some distant, lucid part of his mind forced his alertness. Gods Lavan, is it really you? Where are you?
In a cage, in Zakarah’s elsewhere, or more accurately his hell. Beware, Zakarah is demon-kind!
Gods! Things just kept getting worse. What’s your condition? Has he harmed you?
So far, it’s been bearable—but only barely. Mine is one of many cages. Each holds a captive. Some creatures are sentient, but most are feebleminded. What we all have in common is the Gift. He’s collecting sorcery. Once he drains a captive of its knowledge, that creature disappears. Knowing this, I resist him, but he’s frightfully strong. I don’t know how much longer I can defy him.
You must! I’m coming for you. The next Nexus is imminent. I’ll be there to attempt a rescue, but I need your help. What is Zakarah’s aim? What does he covet? What can I barter for you?
He rapes our minds, ravaging us for anything that has to do with the arts. We’re unable to prevent it, and the pain of it is excruciating.
What has he taken from you?
Information about the university’s relics. He’s obsessed with them. He constantly probes my mind seeking more knowledge of them.
What have you told him?
I’m sorry. I must go. He comes.
Wait! Answer me first. Lavan?
Silence greeted his plea.
Zakarah stared at his shimmering reflection pool, relishing yet another discovery in this latest world. The image before him was female. Thin, and robed in black, her Gift was odd; powerful yet somehow tainted—perhaps reflective arts. Her wooded surroundings were so dark he could barely see her. She knelt before the quivering beast that lay before her. She touched it and its trembling stopped. Its body began transforming into a beast of a different sort; apparently one more suited to her liking. He smiled. Was she a collector too? This female interested him. Best of all, she’d ventured close enough to water to be gathered. The hunt was afoot. Whatever arts she possessed would soon be his.
He extended his arms, his fingers dancing, visualizing her trapped inside one of his cages. Once he harvested her, it would be her home.
He started. Instead of teleporting to his pool, she looked up, as if she could somehow see him. Hissing, she pointed a gnarled finger. His chest spasmed. Stunned, he watched the snarling female thrust her hand higher. His twitches turned to agony. He could scarcely breathe. With monumental effort, he broke his link to her world. His convulsions faded. Fear was an emotion he rarely felt, but it had just touched him. This one had power. He breathed deeply, calming himself, shaking off the memory of her touch. She’d surprised him was all; it wouldn’t happen again. It was simply a matter of time before he collected her too.
Devil’s Isle
Warm sunlight shining on Goodricke’s face wakened him. Squinting, he looked up. The sun had bored a small hole through the cloud cover, providing a soothing respite from the swamp’s unending gloom. He lay savoring its rays until drifting clouds blocked them again. Sitting, he surveyed their campsite. The fire had died, and dew had undone much of his drying efforts. At least he’d stayed warm. Despite its dampness, his thick blanket had preserved his body heat.
He crawled out of his warm cocoon and slipped on his boots. The lurker’s tentacle still clung to his ankle. He examined the soft fleshy suctions that gripped his skin. Efforts to pull it free were both painful and futile. Somehow, he needed to get rid of it. Between it and his swollen ankle, he could hardly lace on his boot.
He hobbled over to check on the still sleeping Jarek. His hair was damp. Was it dew or had his fever broken? Jarek stirred as Goodricke felt his forehead, but didn’t waken. He wasn’t nearly as hot as the night before. Deciding to let the magus sleep, he re-stoked the fire, preparing to cook. Then he remembered they’d eaten the last of their provisions the previous night. How long could they go without nourishment? He looked around. Finding food here seemed unlikely, but somehow, he had to replenish their supplies.
He pulled his rum crock out of his gear and placed it in the embers. Once it warmed, he woke Jarek and got him to swallow a few sips. He re-checked the magus’s forehead. His fever was definitely down. Since they were far from the dangerous waters, he decided to risk letting him rest some more. “Milord, our food supply is lost; I need to restock. Will you be all right by yourself?”
Jarek nodded an
d closed his eyes.
Strapping on sword and hunting knife, Goodricke grabbed his coat and set off exploring. Sounds of wildlife were abundant. He wished he’d brought traps or a bow; something better suited for hunting than knife, sword and twine.
Patches of fog still lingered, especially over the occasional mud pools that dotted the landscape. Dispersed among scattered cypress and alders, they stank of rot. He’d hoped to snare a squirrel or rabbit but found nothing so ordinary. The island was populated with strange and repulsive creatures. Few had fur or feathers. Those he saw were covered with odd scales or had various deformities. Just as the bat had long fangs, these had two heads, two tails, or horns on their faces. Foul Marsh seemed the embodiment of the grotesque. What quirk of the gods created such odd creatures? Or maybe it wasn’t the gods, but some malevolent being. After all, the Magus had hinted that someone, or something, had done this on purpose.
Tracks were abundant, and there was seldom a moment when strange cries didn’t erupt from somewhere. He unsheathed his throwing knife. One of these creatures must be edible.
A terrified shriek startled him. A second followed, then all went quiet. He remained still, his pulse racing. What had cried out? More importantly, what sort of creature had frightened it? He crept through the brush, working toward the sounds. He heard some sort of a beast trotting off. He crouched behind foliage, waiting. Only after its sounds had faded did he risk a peek. There was a clearing several paces beyond him, he spied a log with a pair of carcasses slumped over it. Man-like in shape, they were brown, hairy and brawny. He pulled out his spyglass and scouted the area for signs of whatever had killed them.
Seeing nothing, he pocketed the glass and crept forth on hands and knees. Using brush for concealment, he crawled to the log. Blood oozed from both beast’s mouths. Off in the distance came another horrific cry. He ducked behind the log and froze, afraid any movement might alert the mysterious marauder. Again, he heard what sounded like hoofbeats. Fading hoofbeats. Whatever it was, it was in full-out killing mode.
Convinced that the threat had gone, he rose and examined the carcasses. Large daggered teeth poked upward below their lower lips. One still clutched the half-gnawed carcass of a recent kill. With hairy face and bulging eyes, they were hideous. The smaller one was a miniature version of the larger. He probed their necks for signs of life, but found none. Both were dead, undoubtedly the result of the metal disks embedded in each of their skulls.
He removed one, examining what was some sort of projectile riddled with jagged blades. It was unlike any weapon he’d seen—and definitely man-made. If there was someone on this island capable of making this, they were also capable of leading Master Verity and him out of this accursed swamp. But would pursuing this assassin prove to be his salvation or his demise?
Pocketing the strange weapon, he followed the assassin’s tracks. If he was to catch up with this person—or thing, he needed to make haste. Jogging, he set off in pursuit. Each stride jarred his injured ankle. He did his best to ignore the agony, but after a while, the pain became too great. Spying a log, he plopped down to examine his swollen ankle.
Something poked his backside. He looked for the culprit. It was a plant—a very normal looking plant. More importantly, it was green, growing in brown soil, not the gray clay he’d seen everywhere else. He scoured the area. All the plants here were the same deep green. Were any edible? He broke off a leaf and was about to taste it when he heard a loud snort, followed by a splash. Crawling toward the sound, he peered through the bushes. Ahead was a pool of deep blue water. Clear, it was in sharp contrast with the gray murk he’d seen at all other pools. Standing at its edge was a magnificent white stallion. What was such an elegant beast doing in this horrific place? And clear blue water?
Hearing more splashes, he decided to further investigate. He edged down the slope as quietly as possible. Having encountered enough dangerous creatures in this foul place to last him a lifetime; he’d scout this thing before announcing his presence.
He slipped behind a knoll that offered a full view of the pond. Its stunning rich blueness seemed so out of place in this otherwise dismal marsh. He scanned the oasis for signs of life. A submerged head popped above the surface and swam toward the horse. His mouth gaped as the swimmer trudged ashore. It was a woman. Long wet red hair hung down to her waist as she sloshed along the beach toward a pile of clothing. Was she the marauder’s lady? If so, where was he, and how would he react to someone spying on his woman?
He crawled back up the hill. In his haste his knee crushed a small twig. It snapped. He froze, listening. Hearing nothing, he resumed his arduous journey hill. Spying the log he’d rested on, he rose and limped toward it.
He wasn’t sure if he felt it or heard it first. It looped over his head with a swish, pinning his arms to his sides. He’d been lassoed. As he stumbled backward, he saw his assailant on a tree limb above him. It was the woman.
A jerk of her twine knocked him to the ground. “Stop, nó cosnóidh sé tú beagnach,” she shouted. He had no idea what she’d just demanded of him. Of greater concern was that she was spinning a long piece of rawhide. Embedded in its tip was a metal disk matching the one in his pocket.
Flight
Gresham was packed and ready to go when Hagley arrived the following morning. “Ready to visit the magi again?”
What Gresham really wanted was to leave, to be on the road with Rayna before Robard or the Chevaliers found them, but he’d promised the magi an answer. “A favor first, if I may?”
“I suppose that depends on the favor.”
“I’ve someone I’d like to bring with me. She’s waiting at the Lady’s Academy.”
“She?” Hagley asked, breaking into a grin. “Sure, no problem.”
A quick loading of gear and he and Hagley were off to the Academy. Gresham scoured the area, checking for Chevaliers, or that fellow Robard, but saw neither. Very few people were awake and about this early.
“Wait here while I fetch her,” he said when they arrived.
He walked around to the side of the building, scanning the area for observers. Seeing no one, he tossed a pebble at the window she’d pointed out. He missed on the first try, but his second one was true, striking it with a resounding clack. Rayna appeared in the window, waved, and disappeared.
He returned to the wagon. “She should be here soon.”
Moments later she came out of the building bedecked in a black riding outfit that covered her from ground to shoulders. It clung to her tiny form. She wore a matching hat, alluringly angled to one side. She looked more like a duchess going on a fox hunt than someone about to take to the highways. She did, however, look dazzling.
Hagley let out a soft, slow whistle. “Is that our she?”
Gresham laughed. “Yes.”
After looking around—likely for Robard, she stepped back inside, reappearing moments later with a travel bag. She vanished again—and again—each time returning with an additional bag, quitting after four—enough baggage stuff to fill half a dozen knapsacks. There was no way two of them could carry that much gear, but now was not the time to debate it—they needed to get out of Stalwart.
Hagley helped him load her bags, and they left for the university. Thankfully, Chevaliers no longer guarded the gate.
Hagley tied off the wagon and escorted them inside. After stowing their baggage in an alcove near the front entrance, they were taken to a small room with a single table and six chairs. It was perfunctory at best. “I’ll let the Masters know you’re here,” Hagley said, leaving the room.
“Why are we here?” Rayna asked.
“I’m fulfilling a promise.”
“Shouldn’t we be aboard our carriage by now?”
Gods! How could he have forgotten something as important as booking a carriage? “I, uh, figured that would be the first place Robard would look for you once he learns you’ve fled.”
“How would he even know I’m leaving?�
� She eyed him. “You did book a carriage, didn’t you?”
“It’s a part of my plan I’ve yet to get to.”
“What!” Her look was one of astonished disbelief. “What kind of guide are you?”
He had no excuse. “Apparently not a very good one.”
Rayna buried her hands in her face. “Gods, please tell me Quinn wasn’t right about you.”
As Hagley approached Kagen’s study he heard the old man arguing with Master Vardon. “You can’t force him to stay against his will, Vardon.”
“I can, and I will. We can’t let someone with this rare a gift wander off with no assurances he’ll return. Keeping him here and training him properly is doing him a favor he’ll be grateful for later.”
Clearing his throat, Hagley knocked on the door, announcing his presence. “Excuse me, Sirs, Gresham is here.”
Kagen looked at Vardon. “Say nothing to him on this matter until we’ve discussed it more.”
“Providing we settle the matter today.”
“Fine,” Kagen told him. “Take us to him, Hagley.”
Hagley returned with Kagen and Vardon in tow, unburdening Gresham of Rayna’s unbearable silence. Vardon laid three books on the table. “Did you bring your attunement book?”
“Yes Sir,” he said, fishing it out of his pouch.
Vardon thumbed through it. “Would you mind if I borrowed it? It contains spells I’ve not seen before.”
