Accidental Sorceress (Hardstorm Saga Book 2) (5 page)

The spirit said no more, but his terrible laughter echoed off the cavern walls as he left me, the sound of otherworldly hyenas.

Complete darkness surrounded me. I did not know where I was. I felt terribly lost, as if I could never possibly find my way back to light and those I loved.

When, out of nowhere, taloned hands clamped over my shoulders, I screamed.

But then Batumar called, right next to me, “Tera!” his voice filled with urgency.

My eyes fluttered open. I did not know they had been closed. We were in a new passageway. I was lying on the ground, Batumar and Vooren ashen-faced on their knees, peering over me.

Batumar had his hand on my shoulder, not the dark spirit. I drew a ragged breath. “You found me.”

“I will always find you.” He gathered me up and held me to him.

“Let her breathe, my lord,” Vooren advised gently.

And Batumar drew back, just enough to look me over, the muscles in his face tight. “You fell ill from the sulfur.”

Had I? The dark spirit’s heinous laugher still rang in my ears.
Had he been real? Was our bargain?

I blinked. I could most certainly see. The spirit had not taken my sight. In a panic, I struggled to my feet, nearly knocking Batumar over.

Relief cut through me. I could stand. The spirit had not taken my strength either.

I filled my lungs with musty, ancient air, no trace of rotten eggs here. Maybe the dark spirit
had
been a hallucination from the sulfur gas.

But then I reached up to my throat, and I could feel the droplets of blood where the sharp talons had raked my skin.

Batumar stood and moved the light closer. “You must have scratched yourself while you thrashed.” Then he added, “We shall stay and rest.”

My heart racing, I shook my head. I wanted to be away from this place. I wanted to be out of the mountain.

“Best not.” The steward agreed with me and was moving forward already.

I followed. Then, finally, so did Batumar, staying even closer to me than before.

Soon we reached another low passage. I went to my knees and hands without complaint. I would have done anything to keep moving.

We passed other passageways, wider and taller than ours. But the steward did not alter our course for some time, and when he did, our new path was as tight as the last.

I heard water running in the distance, and fear filled my bones at the thought of that water coming into our narrow tunnel and drowning us. But instead of water, other things moved in the darkness here, things that slithered and scurried by us, on top of us.

Living things.
These I did not mind half as much as the bloodless, hissing dark spirit.

“Just a little longer, my lady,” said the steward up ahead, breathless from effort.

He was right. Soon our passageway expanded enough so we could stand once again.

As we stumbled forward, over the loose rocks that now covered the path, I heard bats swarming above, disturbed by the noise of our passing. Then I could see light ahead at last,
the spirits be blessed
, and could smell fresh, salty air.

My relief was so sharp, it nearly hurt. “The tunnel’s end!”

I rushed toward the circle of light, passing Vooren. Then had to halt when I saw that the opening led to a sheer drop onto rocks below, the gray sea churning furiously, like boiling metal. Even as I leaned forward to look, the wind pushed me back, my cloak flapping.

Batumar’s strong arm caught me around the waist, and he pulled me against his chest. “Careful.”

But his voice held relief, enough to make me wonder if he had been as certain about the mountain passage as he led me to believe.

“That gust will help us stick to the rock face,” he said over my head.

And, after a moment, he pulled away, shed the rope from his shoulder, then shrugged off his fur cloak and laid it on the ground a few steps inside the opening. He pointed at the sun, low in the sky, half-lost in haze. “It is early in the morning still. We are in time. We will rest before we climb down.”

Now that I could see the sky and smell the sea, I could agree. I settled down next to him.

Vooren shed his cloak and sat a few paces from us. He offered us biscuits from his own food sack, and we accepted with thanks. He still had enough for his return, and we had enough to reach the markets of Rabeen, if indeed any pirate ships waited in some hidden cove. If not, I silently swore to go the long way around on our way back to Karamur. I did not ever want to journey through the mountain again.

I ate enough to sate my hunger, but not so much that I would be too full to climb down. We drank sparingly. When we were done, I leaned against Batumar, for the heat of his body and for the sense of well-being his touch gave me.

He put his arms around me, and we relaxed against each other. I took my first easy breath. We were out of the mountain, and the dark spirit had not swooped in to take what he willed from me. His mockery and menace had been nothing but a dream.

Yet even as I thought that, I felt a cold invisible talon caress the side of my face.

Chapter Four

(The Doomed)

Kratos,
the dark spirit had called himself when he had held me in thrall. I did not dare ask Vooren as we rested, for I did not dare speak the name.

As if sensing my unease, Batumar tightened his arm around me. “We best not rest long. We must reach the ship before it sails.”

I drew away from him to stand, more than ready to be away from the mountain. If we missed the ship, all we had gone through so far would be for naught.

While I inspected my bundles of herbs and retied some to be more secure, Batumar set up the rope, tying one end to an outcropping of rock inside the opening, then testing the strength of the knot.

When he was satisfied, he dropped the rest of the rope over the ledge to unfurl on the side of the cliff. “I shall go first.”

He rolled his fur cloak into a bundle and tied it onto his back, stepped over the edge without hesitation, then began lowering himself, hand over hand. I peeked over the edge, my heart in my throat as I watched him.

He stopped and looked up. “Come carefully.”

Heart, be brave.
I bundled up my cloak and tied it to my back as he had. I kept reminding myself that I was good at climbing, had climbed all the tallest trees in my childhood to collect the healing drops of moonflowers.

Vooren said, “May the spirits keep you and bring you back to us.”

The words were heartfelt, but as I turned, I could see in his sunken eyes that he did not expect such a happy reunion. I thought he was most noble-hearted for worrying about us. He would now have to return through the mountain all alone. I would not have traded places with him for all the world.

“The spirits keep you,” I responded as I gripped the rope. Then I stepped over the ledge.

Spirit, be strong. Heart, be brave.
Those words had been my mother’s last message to me. I planned to hold them close on our journey.

The wind hit me at once, coming in from the sea in an angry squall. I held on tightly, glad to be wearing my Shahala healer’s clothes that allowed for climbing instead of the billowing dress of a concubine the wind would have used as a sail to blow me clear off the cliffs.

The rough rope bit into my hand. I ignored the burn.

The first stretch of rock was a sheer cut, no crevices for foothold, slippery from the moist sea air, like walking on ice. I lowered myself carefully, handhold over handhold at least a hundred times before the surface turned more scraggly. Once I could find a foothold, I moved my feet from the rope to the rock, but held on to the rope with my hands as tightly as I had before.

Old bones littered the larger crevices, both animal and human, nearly petrified. I had to move to the side to avoid stepping on a grinning skull bleached by weather and time.

Buffeted by the winds, our climb was slow and seemed to take as long as the endless journey through the dark belly of the mountain. Countless times my feet slipped, but I held on to the rope, and that saved me. I hung on by sheer will and for fear that if I fell, I might knock Batumar down with me.

By the time my feet touched the rocky shore below, my muscles were shaking, my face was chapped, my eyes all teared up, and my hair had come fully undone, whipping around me in the wind.

But Batumar looked at me with nothing but pride and approval in his eyes. “Well done, my lady.”

His words warmed me, but he meant to warm me further. He unwrapped his fur cloak and fastened it onto his wide shoulders, then drew me against him, tucking me under. I burrowed against him and soaked up his heat, clinging to him with my arms around his waist, grateful to be standing on solid ground once again.

“The people who lived on the side of the mountain before the Kadar came,” he said into my hair, “used the passages of the mountain as their temples. They sacrificed greatly to their god, casting below even some of their children.”

I had a dark suspicion who that god might be.

“Kratos?” My voice was muffled against his chest, so I tilted my head up to him.

Batumar nodded, an eyebrow lifting in surprise that I would know. “Rorin’s father.”

Rorin was the god of war Kadar warlords and their people worshipped.

I turned to look up at the opening we had come through, now impossibly high above us. Our rope was moving up, re-coiled by the steward.

Batumar said, “We have managed fine well thus far, my lady. We are probably the only people ever to leave through The Mouth of the Mountain and live.”

He was right. The first step of our journey had been taken safely. I gave silent thanks to the spirits.

When the rope and Vooren disappeared, I extricated myself from Batumar’s heavy cloak, stepped back, and checked him over, seeing his disguise for the first time in the full light of day.

The success of our next step depended on not being recognized. If the pirates discovered who we truly were, instead of transporting us across the ocean, they would hold us for ransom.

Batumar’s cloak was old and worn in patches. He wore a simple wool tunic under it. His winter boots, treated leather on the outside that would not allow water through, warm fur within, were scuffed aplenty. At his side hung his broadsword, no different than any warrior might take to battle, the kind of sword that fathers handed down to their sons.

His dark mane was shaggy now from the wind, like any warrior’s, not like a proper lord’s who had concubines to comb it. The siege had sewn silver threads through that once ebony hair. His face unshaven, with his scars, he might yet pass for the type of soldier who would hire himself out as a guard for a dangerous journey.

“Where do the other warlords think you have gone?” I asked as I combed my hair into order with my fingers, then drew my healer’s veil from under my tunic and wrapped the length of yellow satin tightly around my head.

“They think we are journeying to your Shahala lands to assess the damage and loss of life. And to negotiate the purchase of oil, in case of another siege.”

During the siege of Karamur, we had poured burning oil from the top of the walls on the attacking enemy below. Nary a drop was to be found now in the city, not even in the High Lord’s palace.

Batumar glanced to the sky. “Only Lord Samtis knows the truth. I left him in charge of protecting Karamur in my absence.”

I wanted to ask more, but Batumar led the way around an outcropping that reached into the sea, and here the waves were too loud for us to talk. Each step required our full attention, so we struggled forward in silence for a while.

No ships bobbed on the water along the shore, nor farther out at sea, but as we rounded the outcropping, a hidden cove did appear as Batumar had predicted. And there, in calmer waters, sat a quick little sloop, along with a much larger merchant schooner, seabirds circling around their red sails. Both ships were manned, both looking ready to cast off.

I stared, feeling as if I had walked into a children’s tale. “Pirate ships both.”

“Merchant ships do not visit pirate coves, if they can help it. Rorin be blessed, we are not late.”

I shared Batumar’s relief, but not without some trepidation mixed in.
Will they take us? Why would they? Why not slay us here? Or take us into slavery?

Now that I could see the pirates with my own eyes, they suddenly seemed frighteningly real and our plan poorly thought out once again. But despite my misgivings, I hurried behind Batumar, even as I struggled to hold my cloak closed so the wind wouldn’t whip it around me and tug me off-balance, watching my footing on the rocks that were slippery from sea spray.

I could see how Barren Cove earned its name. Nothing but rocks, not a blade of grass, not a single spot of green.

Once we reached closer, I understood why pirates would choose this particular cove. Beyond a quiet spot to repair storm damage, the far end of the cove also provided fresh water from a stream that trickled forth from among the rocks.

Four men were filling a row of oak barrels. They wore snug, black wool pants and shirts, their long hair tied back with colorful rags. Curved swords hung from their wide belts, an assortment of daggers stuck in the back. As those men paid no mind to us, I turned my attention back to the ships.

Only a handful of men worked aboard the sloop, but the merchant schooner was better manned. Dozens of swarthy men hurried with their duties on and around it. I took in the two tall
mainmast
s and a shorter
foremast
, the red sails marked with symbols and patterns of faraway lands I did not recognize.

Some of the crew were making last-minute repairs, others prepared the schooner to set sail, and yet others were rolling water barrels—lids nailed down—up the plank that connected the ship to shore.

The pirates regarded us with sideways glances, keeping track of our progress, but as a single warrior and a woman presented no threat, they did not interrupt their preparations.