The Summoner

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Nice night for it, huh, Tris?" The bard shouted, toeing over the dead man and retrieving his knife. Two more of the slavers were heading for them at a dead run, and Carroway's hand flicked, sending a glimmer of silver through the torchlit night. One of the slavers dropped in his tracks, and Tris stepped forward to meet the challenge, covering Carroway as the bard reached for his own sword.

  "Just what I wanted to be doing," Tris replied. In the distance, Tris could see Carina defending the small tent she used as a hospital-no match for the two slavers determined to enter. Just as Tris met his opponent's attack, he saw one of the slavers Carina battled close with his sword, engaging her staff as the other slaver swung a broken board with his full might, catching the healer across the shoulder blades and driving her to her knees. Enraged, Tris cut his way through his attacker's advance, bent on coming to Carina's aid, even as Carroway's opponent drove the bard back until Tris and Carroway were fighting back to back.

  "I'm afraid I'm out of tricks," Carroway gasped between parries. Barely fending off his own attacker, Tris saw the slavers pull Carina roughly to her feet as a dark, hooded figure sprang from the shadows, a ball of white light streaming from the folds of its robed sleeves. Alyzza! Tris thought hopefully, and Carina's captors staggered back a pace. But hope died as two other slavers leapt toward the old witch with a heavy cloak, landing hard on the hedgewitch and binding her so tightly that Tris wondered if Alyzza would smother.

  "I'm afraid we might all be," Tris replied, barely parrying his attacker's blow. Cam, Soterius and Harrtuck were nowhere to be seen in the confusion as the screams and cries of the panicked caravan traders mingled with the battle shouts of the slavers. Tents burned around them, setting the campground aglow in a play of light and shadow.

  Just as Tris focused all his energy in beating back his opponent's advance, a sharp thud sounded near his boot and a crossbow bolt buried itself in the ground barely beyond his toes. His opponent took advantage of the instant's distraction and swung with murderous fury, snapping Tris's sword in two. The hope that Vahanian had come to the rescue faded as Tris looked up to find himself ringed by a half dozen cold-eyed slavers with crossbows notched and leveled, aimed squarely at Carroway and him.

  "Drop your weapons," the taller slaver shouted. "At this distance, we can't possibly miss. I assure you, you are worth more to us alive than dead."

  Feeling sick, Tris dropped what was left of his sword, hearing Carroway's weapon thud to the ground an instant later. Four of the slavers ran forward and forced Tris and Carroway to their knees, roughly removing the remainder of their weapons. Tris exchanged a solemn glance with his friend, whose pale expression mirrored his own dim appraisal of their situation. Within moments, the battle was over and the slavers began gathering their captives in what remained of the camp's main area. Still struggling, Carina was dragged beside Tris, then dropped unceremoniously to the ground. With a muffled curse, the healer managed to score a sharp kick to her captor's ankles. The man gave a cry and wheeled as if to strike her, but a tall slaver barked reproof.

  "No one damages the captives before the Captain gets here," the tall slaver snapped. Carina's would-be attacker stopped, and with a growl and look that promised trouble, limped away.

  "Sir," a runner panted, stumbling to a stop an arm's length from the tall slaver. "We have a report from the Pass. The other group has been secured."

  The tall slaver smiled coldly and nodded. "Good," he said with satisfaction. "Very good. Kaine has earned his payment," he remarked. "Have them meet us here. We'll take the cargo to the buyers together."

  "As you wish." The runner headed for the perimeter, and the tall slaver surveyed his captives.

  "I think we're in trouble," Carroway whispered to Tris.

  "Looks like it's going to take a while longer to get to Principality."

  "You there," the tall slaver barked at Tris. "Quiet."

  The slavers secured the camp with professional speed. Tris's spirits sank as he looked over the bound and chained captives. Of the fifty who stayed with Linton, only two score now remained. The others, Tris presumed, were more likely to have fallen defending the camp than to have fled the attackers. To his bitter disappointment, Cam, Soterius, Harrtuck and Vahanian were among the missing.

  "That's all of them, at least, all that's still breathing," a short, pox-faced slaver reported.

  "What about the caravan master?" the tall slaver asked.

  The pox-faced man shook his head. "Didn't have the heart for it," he said, clucking his tongue. "Found him dead in his bed."

  "The men are getting heavy handed," the tall slaver said reproachfully, looking over the wreckage of the camp. "They killed too many this time. Cuts into profits. Next raid, every dead captive is a cut in their ale ration."

  "Aye, Tarren," the pox-faced man replied. "That'll get their attention."

  Tarren surveyed the captives once more. Smoke lingered over the camp in a dark, noxious cloud. Behind the wagons, frightened screams mingled with the guards' boorish laughter to reveal the location of the female caravan survivors. Tris clenched his jaw and strained against the ropes that bound his wrists, but even a momentary struggle confirmed that his captors had secured against any easy escape.

  "What have we here?" Tarren said, walking over to where Carina sat, just an arm's length from Tris. The healer's robe was soot-streaked and torn, testimony to her spirited struggle, and her dark hair was tangled. She had not looked up since the guards dragged her to her spot, and Tris suspected that it was the disappearance of her brother that left Carina bereft of hope, even more than their own dire situation. "Speak, wench. Are you a healer?"

  Carina looked up with a glare. "I am," she said tonelessly.

  "I wonder," Tarren said, looking at her disheveled appearance. "Healers bring a fine price. Perhaps that's just a healer's belt you've stolen. I must be sure," he said, his eyes narrowing. "If not, I'm sure you have other... talents... we can use," he said, and as if on cue, another terrified scream pierced the night from behind the wagons.

  "Tarren, we found him," a slaver hailed, approaching the circle of firelight. As the slaver drew closer, Tris could see that he carried a limp form in his arms.

  "Alive?" Tarren asked, frowning.

  "Barely," the newcomer replied. "Found him out on the edge of camp. And a dozen of our men, with bolts in their backs, to prove it," he added, joining Tarren in the firelight. With a shrug as if he were unloading a sack of flour, the slaver dropped the body at Tarren's feet.

  Tris caught his breath. Vahanian lay pale and still on the ground.

  Tarren looked from Vahanian's silent form to Carina and back again. "The bounty's good with him dead, but it's higher if he lives long enough to... question him," Tarren said. "Healer," he said roughly. "A deal. Prove your talent to me with this smuggler, and you remain under my protection." He grinned wolfishly. "Fail, and I place you under the careful eye of my trusted guards."

  Tris felt his heart pound. Vahanian was far paler than usual, and a faint blue already tinged his lips. The smuggler's breath was shallow and rapid, and a nasty crimson stain below his ribs soaked his tunic. Tarren stepped forward, drawing a dagger, and Carina shrank back instinctively. The slaver reached down and sliced through her bonds.

  "All right," Tarren said, crossing his arms. "He lives and so do you. If he dies... there are plenty of brothels that would be glad for you."

  Tris managed as reassuring a glance as he could muster. Carina knelt beside Vahanian and let her right hand glide down the length of the smuggler's body. She moved slowly, beginning with his head, and as her hand moved across his features, the superficial marks of battle-a split lip, a purple bruise on his cheek, a surface cut along his jaw, faded. Tarren watched intently, noting the changes with raised eyebrow.

  Tris slowed his breathing and let himself slip into trance. As if suspended between two realms, he was dimly aware of the slavers' camp, but now he also saw the spirit plains, sensed Carina's healing on a differe
nt, life-force level. It was possible to share limited communication, Tris and Carina had found, here in the trance.

  Tris, help me! Carina called to him.

  Tris breathed deeply and focused his senses on the life force that was Carina, channeling his own energy to her as he had done before in the healer's hut. As he brushed her spirit, he could sense the toll the healing was already taking on her strength.

  Carina's hands reached Vahanian's abdomen and she blanched, tearing at the fighter's shirt with both hands to expose a deep belly wound. Tris let the scene in front of him recede further, trying to blunt his own emotions and channel more energy to Carina. He felt a wave of panic in return.

  He's dying, Tris! I don't think I can heal this in time.

  Tris stretched his mage senses further. He licked his lips with concentration, willing himself deeper still, until he could not smell the smoke or hear the cries of the prisoners, until nothing existed at all except the darkness behind his closed eyes.

  And then, he glimpsed it, a thin, evanescent strand of light, so dim that it barely shone above the darkness. It flickered and instinctively Tris dove for it, stretching out with all his will until he reached the glowing strand. He looked back, and saw himself as a second, more brightly glowing strand, as if all the vital strength of his life force could be captured in a single, shining thread. On instinct, he reinforced Vahanian's flickering strand with his own, picturing himself hanging on to the end of a slipping cord with all his strength, hoping that he could lend his strength long enough for Carina to work her healing.

  Unbidden, Alyzza's warning in the glade returned to mind. Never, never can you bind a soul that does not wish to stay, the old witch had warned. Tris held on to the flickering strand with all his might, sensing no desire for the spirit to depart.

  He waited forever in the darkness, suspended in unending night. The strand that was Vahanian's fragile life still flickered, but to Tris's relief, did not fade further. Nor did Tris feel the wrenching separation he experienced at Kait's death, when it was not her life but her spirit he caused to remain. Perhaps, he hoped, that meant that he was doing what Carina needed him to do, sustaining Vahanian while she worked, and lending his strength to support both the healer and her patient.

  The strain began to take its toll as Tris struggled to keep his concentration. Once, the thread flickered dangerously, and Tris lunged for it with all his will. He imagined that he felt the thread surge towards him in response, and clung to the hope of that faint sign of life. Time meant nothing there in the blackness, cut off from all senses but the presence of the clear blue light. Gradually, Tris felt a growing warmth, which began from the very edges of his perception, warming the chill of the blackness as it advanced resolutely.

  Just a little longer, Tris heard Carina urge, tired but steady. He redoubled his own flagging efforts, and found, to his relief, that the glimmering thread that was Vahanian no longer flickered, but pulsed a dim, steady blue.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Tris heard Carina's voice again. Break the contact, Carina urged. Tris imagined himself gently letting go of the now strengthened blue thread, easing his way back through the darkness, which by now had lightened to pale twilight. With a lurch, he came back to himself, and opened his eyes, painfully aware that both his feet had gone to sleep and his back cramped uncomfortably.

  Vahanian groaned and heaved a deep breath. Tris dared a look at the swordsman. Vahanian's breathing was measured and deep, and color had returned to his face.

  "Well done, healer," Tarren said appraisingly. "You there," he hailed two of the slavers who were among the small crowd that gathered to watch the healing, "tie him up and make sure it's secure," he said with a nod toward Vahanian.

  The slavers took a step back, fear plain in their faces. "Vayash moru," they murmured, and the murmur spread among the small crowd.

  Tarren looked at them with contempt. "Rubbish. Wives' tales, all of it." He looked levelly at the two again, and the slavers seemed to shrink in on themselves, torn between their fear of Vahanian and their fear of their commander. "Now, tie him and make it tight," Tarren repeated in a voice that threatened worse than any vengeance of the undead. Pale but obedient, the slavers did as they were bid, binding Vahanian to a stake in the ground between Tris and Carina. Carroway, to Tris's right, gave Tris a silent nod of approval. On Carina's left, Alyzza, still hooded, rocked back and forth, humming a haunting melody.

  Once Tarren and the others left, Tris glanced over to Carina. The healer slumped against the stake to which she was tied, eyes on the ground. "You were fantastic," Tris praised. "I never believed in miracles, but that was close."

  Carina barely managed a wan smile in acknowledgment. "I couldn't have done it without you. Truly," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. The life had gone out of her voice, leaving it flat and tired. He guessed that she was thinking about Cam, and feeling his loss even more potently than before, having lost her healing partner as well as her brother.

  "We don't know for sure about Cam and the others," he said as hopefully as he could muster. "Ban and Tov are resourceful. Maybe they were able to slip away, get help," he suggested, although in his heart, he feared the worst.

  Carina shook her head. "I want to believe that," she whispered, her voice catching. "But I think we're just fooling ourselves. And we were so close to Dhasson."

  "Somehow, we're going to make it," Tris swore, although his resolve far surpassed any ideas of how he might make good his oath. "We have to. I have to."

  Carina looked up and held his gaze for a long moment, as if she were taking his measure anew. "I shouldn't dare to hope," she whispered finally. "But I wish I could."

  Vahanian roused from his spot between them, then settled back into an uneasy rest. "What about him?" Tris asked, worriedly. He knew how close Vahanian had been to death. Any escape attempt would hinge on the swordsman's recovery.

  "I don't know," Carina answered honestly. "He's much better than before, but it was pretty bad. I didn't sense any permanent damage, but then again, there wasn't a lot of time."

  Tris nodded. Carroway leaned as close to Tris as the bard could and hissed through his teeth to get Tris's attention. "What's the plan?" Carroway whispered, keeping a wary eye on their distant guards.

  Tris grimaced. "Watch and wait, at least for now," he replied with as much of a shrug as his bonds would permit. "And hope for an opening."

  "There aren't many of us left," Carroway observed soberly. "Fewer to rescue, but on the other hand, fewer to help fight."

  "I know," Tris replied, closing his eyes as the bruises and wounds of the day began to ache in earnest. "It will have to do."

  At dawn, the rest of the slavers' camp joined them. Provision wagons rolled noisily into the remains of the caravan grounds, followed by pack mules and finally two wagons filled with another dozen manacled slaves. The slaves on the wagon regarded the new captives with studied disinterest, avoiding eye contact. They've given up, Tris thought. Not a one of them looks like he's spoiling for a fight. Another omen that any reprieve would have to be of their own making. Tris shut his eyes, willing himself to find a steady center and review his last lessons with Carina. This time he must be ready, he thought. When the time came, his powers-new as they might be-must be under his control. He glanced at Vahanian's slumped form. Sleep well, my friend, Tris thought. I'm going to need time.

  Tris watched the slavers closely throughout the next morning. The band appeared to number no more than thirty. They made camp efficiently and were well provisioned. Tris's spirits sank. It was unlikely that these slavers would provide them with an easy opportunity.

  He first caught sight of the young girl at breakfast, slipping quickly among the slavers, dodging them like an experienced scullery maid. Just a few years younger than Kait, he thought, but with a glint to her eyes much more worldly than his sister had acquired. Her brown hair was dirty and matted, caught back with a piece of string. The tattered dress might once have been of g
ood cloth, but was now far too ragged and stained to do more than barely protect her from the cold.

  Still, there was quickness in her movement that suggested intelligence, Tris thought with curiosity, although during the first two candlemarks that he watched, the girl appeared to be a disaster in action. She spilled hot karif on one slaver, earning herself an incidental cuffing which she took without a word. She kicked loose two coals from the fire and set a small patch of grass on fire, disrupting breakfast, for which she abjectly apologized, sparing herself another blow.

  But when she tripped over a guywire and tipped Tarren's breakfast onto the ground, Tris happened to catch her eye and, to his surprise, caught the barest of winks before she scrambled to clean up the mess. Not inept, he thought, smothering a smile. Intentionally destructive, with an impish humor. Before he could guess more, she disappeared inside the cook's tent.

  Just before the breakfast fires were banked, Vahanian stirred. "What hit me?" he moaned to no one in particular, and struggled to open his eyes, then blinked and squinted against the sun.

  "From the blood, I imagine the edge of a broadsword," Tris answered dryly.

  Vahanian shifted, seemed to become aware of his bonds for the first time and struggled briefly, then leaned back in surrender against the post that secured him. "Let me guess," he murmured. "We lost."

  "Uh huh," Tris replied.

  Just then, the girl appeared with a loaf of bread under her arm and a pitcher and cup in her other hand. She began to work her way down the line of bound prisoners, giving each an ample slice of the bread and holding the cup for them to drink. She caught Tris's eye knowingly, as if they shared a secret, then moved on to Vahanian.