Dragon's Teeth (10 page)

“Jesalis?” Martis asked incredulously; for the jesalis was a fragile blossom of rare perfume, and nothing about the ugly little mare could remind anyone of a flower.

“Balance, Mage-lady,” Lyran replied, so earnestly that Martis had to hide a smile. “So foul a temper has she, that it is necessary to give her a sweet name to leaven her nature.”

They rode out of the Guild-hold in single file with Martis riding in the lead, since protocol demanded that the “hireling” ride behind the “mistress” while they were inside the town wall. Once they’d passed the gates, they reversed position. Lyran would lead the way as well as providing a guard, for all of Martis’ attention must be taken up by her preparations to meet with her wayward former student. Tosspot would obey his training and follow wherever the rider of Jesalis led.

This was the reason that Tosspot’s gait and reliability were worth more than gold pieces. Most of Martis’ time in the saddle would be spent in a trancelike state as she gradually gathered power to her. It was this ability to garner and store power that made her a Masterclass sorceress—for after all, the most elaborate spell is useless without the power to set it in motion.

There were many ways to accumulate power. Martis’ was to gather the little aimless threads of it given off by living creatures in their daily lives. Normally this went unused, gradually dissipating, like dye poured into a river. Martis could take these little tag-ends of energy, spin them out and weave them into a fabric that was totally unlike what they had been before. This required total concentration, and there was no room in her calculations for mistake.

Martis was grateful that Lyran was neither sullen nor inclined to chatter. She was able to sink into her magic gathering-trance undistracted by babble and undisturbed by a muddy, surly aura riding in front of her. Perhaps Ben had been right after all. The boy was so unobtrusive that she might have been riding alone. She spared one scant moment to regret faintly that she would not be able to enjoy the beauties of the summer woods and meadows they were to ride through. It was so seldom that she came this way . . .

****

The atmosphere was so peaceful that it wasn’t until she sensed—more than felt—the touch of the bodyguard’s hand on her leg that she roused up again. The sun was westering, and before her was a small clearing, with Lyran’s horse contentedly grazing and a small, neat camp already set up. Martis’ tent was to the west of the clearing, a cluster of boulders behind it, and the tent-flap open to the cheerful fire. Lyran’s bedroll lay on the opposite side. Jesalis was unsaddled, and her tack laid beside the bedroll. From what Martis could see, all of her own belongings had been placed unopened just inside the tent. And all had been accomplished without Martis being even remotely aware of it.

“Your pardon, Mage-lady,” Lyran said apologetically, “but your horse must be unsaddled.”

“And you can’t do that with me still sitting on him,” Martis finished for him, highly amused. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier? I’m perfectly capable of helping make camp.”

“The Guard-serjant made it plain to this one that you must be allowed to work your magics without distraction. Will you come down?”

“Just one moment—” There was something subtly wrong, but Martis couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Before she could say anything, however, Lyran suddenly seized her wrist and pulled her down from her saddle, just as an arrow arced through the air where she had been. Lyran gave a shrill whistle, and Jesalis threw up her head, sniffed the breeze, and charged into the trees to their left. Martis quickly sought cover in some nearby bushes, as Lyran hit the ground and rolled up into a wary crouch.

A scream from where the mare had vanished told that the horse had removed the obstacle of the archer, but he had not been alone. From under the cover of the trees stepped not one, but three swordsmen. Lyran regained his feet in one swift motion, drew the swords he wore slung across his back, and faced them in a stance that was not of any fighting style Martis recognized. He placed himself so that they would have to pass him to reach her.

The first of the assassins—Martis was reasonably sure that this was what they were—laughed and swatted at Lyran with the flat of his blade in a careless, backhanded stroke, aiming negligently for his head.

“This little butterfly is mine—we will see if he likes to play the woman he apes—” he began.

Lyran moved, lithe as a ferret. The speaker stared stupidly at the sword blade impaling his chest. Lyran had ducked and come up inside his guard, taking him out before he’d even begun to realize what the bodyguard was about.

Lyran pulled his blade free of the new-made corpse while the assassin still stood. He whirled to face the other two before the first fell to the ground.

They moved in on him with far more caution than their companion had, circling him warily to attack him from opposite sides. He fended off their assault easily, his two swords blurring, they moved so fast, his movement dancelike. But despite his skill he could seem to find no opening to make a counterattack. For the moment all three were deadlocked. Martis chafed angrily at her feeling of helplessness—the combative magics she’d prepared were all meant to be used against another mage. To use any of the spells she knew that would work against a fighter, she’d have to reach her supplies in her saddlebags—now rather hopelessly out of reach. She found that she was sharply aware of the incongruous scent of the crushed blossoms that lay beneath the dead man’s body.

The deadlock was broken before Martis could do more than curse at her own helplessness.

Within the space of a breath, Lyran feinted at the third of the assassins, drawing the second to attack. He caught his opponent’s blade in a bind, and disarmed him with practiced ease. Then the third lunged at him, and he moved aside just enough for his blade to skim past his chest. Lyran’s left-hand blade licked out and cut his throat with the recovery of the stroke that had disarmed the second. Before Martis could blink, he continued the flow of movement before the third could fall to cut the second nearly in half with the sword in his right.

And behind him, the first dead man rose, sword in hand, and hacked savagely at the unsuspecting Lyran’s blind side. Lyran got one blade up in time to deflect the blow, but the power behind it forced him to one knee. The Undead hammered at the bodyguard, showing sorcerous strength that far exceeded his abilities in life. Lyran was forced down and back, until the Undead managed to penetrate his defenses with an under-and-over strike at his left arm.

The slice cut Lyran’s arm and shoulder nearly to the bone. The sword dropped from his fingers and he tried to fend off the liche with the right alone.

The Undead continued to press the attack, its blows coming even faster than before. Lyran was sent sprawling helplessly when it caught him across the temple with the flat of its blade.

Martis could see—almost as if time had slowed—that he would be unable to deflect the liche’s next strike.

She, Lyran, and the Undead all made their moves simultaneously.

Martis destroyed the magic that animated the corpse, but not before it had made a two-handed stab at the bodyguard.

But Lyran had managed another of those ferret-quick squirms. As the liche struck, he threw himself sideways—a move Martis would have thought impossible, and wound up avoiding impalement by inches. The Undead collapsed then, as the magic supporting it dissolved.

Freed from having to defend himself, Lyran dropped his second blade, groped for the wound, and sagged to his knees in pain.

Martis sprinted from out of hiding, reaching the swordsman’s side in five long strides. Given the amount of damage done his arm, it was Lyran’s good fortune that his charge was Masterclass! In her mind she was gathering up the strands of power she’d accumulated during the day, and reweaving them into a spell of healing; a spell she knew so well she needed nothing but her memory to create.

Even in that short period of time, Lyran had had the presence of mind to tear off the headband that had kept his long hair out of his eyes and tie it tightly about his upper arm, slowing the bleeding. As Martis reached for the wounded arm, Lyran tried feebly to push her away.

“There is—no need—Mage-lady,” he gasped, his eyes pouring tears of pain.

Martis muttered an obscenity and cast the spell. “No guard in
my
service stays wounded,” she growled. “I don’t care what or who you’ve served before; I take care of my own.”

Having said her say and worked her magics, she went to look at the bodies while the spell did its work.

What she found was very interesting indeed, so interesting that at first she didn’t notice that Lyran had come to stand beside her where she knelt. When she did notice, it was with some surprise that she saw the slightly greenish cast to the guard’s face, and realized that Lyran was striving valiantly not to be sick. Lyran must have seen her surprise written clear in her expression, for he said almost defensively, “This one makes his living by the sword, Mage-lady, but it does not follow that he enjoys viewing the consequences of his labor.”

Martis made a noncommittal sound and rose. “Well, you needn’t think your scoutcraft’s at fault, young man. These men—the archer, too, I’d judge—were brought here by magic just a few moments before they attacked us. I wish you could have taken one alive. He could have told us a lot.”

“It is this one’s humble opinion that one need not look far for the author of the attack,” Lyran said, looking askance at Martis.

“Oh, no doubt it’s Kelven’s work, all right. He knows what my aura looks like well enough to track me from a distance and pinpoint my location with very little trouble, and I’m sure he knows that it’s me the Guild would send after him. And he knows the nearest Gate-point, and that I’d be heading there. No, what I wish I knew were the orders he gave this bunch. Were they to kill—or to disable and capture?” She dusted her hands, aware that the sun was almost gone and the air was cooling. “Well, I’m no necromancer, so the knowledge is gone beyond my retrieval.”

“Shall this one remove them?” Lyran still looked a little sick.

“No, the healing-spell I set on you isn’t done yet, and I don’t want you tearing that wound open again. Go take care of Tosspot and find your mare, wherever she’s gotten herself to. I’ll get rid of them.”

Martis piled the bodies together and burned them to ash with mage-fire. It was a bit of a waste of power, but the energy liberated by the deaths of the assassins would more than make up for the loss—though Martis felt just a little guilty at using that power. Violent death always released a great deal of energy—it was a short-cut to gaining vast quantities of it—which was why blood-magic was proscribed by the Guild. Making use of what was released when you had to kill in self-defense was one thing—cold-blooded killing to gain power was something else.

When Martis returned to the campsite, she discovered that not only had Lyran located his mare and unharnessed and tethered Tosspot, but that he’d made dinner as well. Browning over the pocket-sized fire was a brace of rabbits.

“Two?” she asked quizzically. “I can’t eat more than half of one. And where did you get them?”

“This one has modest skill with a sling, and there were many opportunities as we rode,” Lyran replied. “And the second one is for breakfast in the morning.”

Lyran had placed Tosspot’s saddle on the opposite side of the fire from his own, just in front of the open tent. Martis settled herself on her saddle to enjoy her dinner. The night air was pleasantly cool, night creatures made sounds around them that were reassuring because it meant that no one was disturbing them. The insects of the daylight hours were gone, those of the night had not yet appeared. And the contradictions in her guard’s appearance and behavior made a pleasant puzzle to mull over.

“I give up,” she said at last, breaking the silence between them, silence that had been punctuated by the crackle of the fire. “You are the strangest guard I have ever had.”

Lyran looked up, and the fire revealed his enigmatic expression. He had eaten his half of the rabbit, but had done so as if it were a duty rather than a pleasure. He still looked a bit sickly.

“Why does this one seem strange to you, Mage-lady?”

“You dress like a dancer playing at being a warrior, you fight like a friggin’ guard-troop all by yourself—then you get sick afterwards because you killed someone. You wear silks that would do a harlot proud, but you ride a mare that’s a damn trained killer. What
are
you, boy? What land spawned something like you?”

“This one comes from far—a great distance to the west and south. It is not likely that you have ever heard of the People, Mage-lady. The Guard-serjant had not. As for why this one is the way he is—this one follows A Way.”

“The
Way?”

“No, Mage-lady, ‘A Way.’ The People believe that there are many such Ways, and ours is of no more merit than any other. Our way is the Way of Balance.”

“You said something about ‘Balance’ before—” Now Martis’ curiosity was truly aroused. “Just what does this Way entail?”

“It is simplicity. One must strive to achieve Balance in all things in one’s life. This one—is on a kind of pilgrimage to find such Balance, to find a place where this one may fit within the pattern of All. Because this one’s nature is such that he does well to live by the sword, he must strive to counter this by using that sword in the service of peace—and to cultivate peace in other aspects of his life. And, in part, it must be admitted that this one fosters a helpless outer aspect,” Lyran smiled wryly. “The Mage-lady will agree that appearing ineffectual does much to throw the opponent off his guard. So—that is the
what
of this one. As to the why—the People believe that the better one achieves Balance, the better one will be reborn.”

“I certainly hope you don’t include good and evil in your Balance—either that, or I’ll do the cooking from now on.” Lyran laughed.

“No Mage-lady, for how could one weigh ‘good’ and ‘evil’? Assuredly, it was ‘good’ that this one slew your foes, but was it not ‘evil’ to them? Sometimes things are plainly one or the other, but too often it depends upon where one stands one’s own self. A primary tenet of our Way is to do no harm when at all possible—to wound, rather than kill, subdue rather than wound, reason rather than subdue, and recall when reasoning that the other may have the right of it.”