Sword of Shadows (27 page)

Chapter Thirty

Mage Corey, Borten, and Mariel
turned northward after Eolyn’s departure. They abandoned their horses, travelling on foot to avoid being too conspicuous.

Late on the third day of their journey, Corey and Mariel were following a small stream through a narrow valley when Borten descended from a nearby ridge with a dark scowl. He stopped in front of them.

“Stay here,” Borten said to Mariel. Then to the mage he barked an equally curt order, “Come with me.”

Corey bristled, but repressed the desire to respond in kind.

They climbed the steep slope, leaf litter crunching under their feet. Late afternoon light sliced through thin trunks of birch and alder. Near the top, Borten signaled the mage to get down, and they approached the ridge on hands and knees.

Below them stretched a broad grassy valley where a road followed the glistening course of the Tarba River. On that road, an army marched westward under banners of scarlet and gold.

Corey shook his head in dismay. “Could the Gods have granted us any better luck?”

The snap of branches underfoot nearly bolted the mage out of his skin. Borten spun into a ready crouch, knife in hand, but it was only Mariel watching them with worried eyes.

“I told you to stay below.” The knight’s rebuke was delivered in a whisper.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

She dropped onto her knees and crawled until she lay beside Corey. Her aroma of oak leaves and loam proved a pleasant distraction.

“What’s happened?” she asked then gasped when she saw the Syrnte army.

“We are too close.” Borten drummed his fingers against the damp earth. “They will break for camp soon, and send out foragers. We must find a concealed place to spend the night. Tomorrow, we will head east until we have a greater chance of crossing the road unnoticed.”

“I can invoke some additional wards once we’ve settled,” Corey offered. “They will not hide us entirely, but they can divert the unsuspecting.”

The knight nodded, rose to his feet, and started back toward the stream, signaling them to follow.

*  *  *

Compared to East Selen, the forests of Moehn were dizzying in their summer activity. At night frogs, crickets, cicadas, and other unnamed creatures burst forth in raucous song.

Corey might have found their cadence soothing, were it not for his wary attention to any sound that might indicate a Syrnte patrol, or worse, the Naether Demons.

Beside him Mariel slept, her quiet snore falling into easy harmony with the insects that ruled the night. The light of a waxing moon fell in speckled patterns across her heart-shaped face. One hand lay in a covetous grip over the hilt of her knife.

Corey looked up through the thicket of branches that concealed the little hollow where they lay, a damp depression surrounded by rocky walls, carpeted with spongy moss and rotting leaves. Somewhere nearby, Borten was keeping the first watch, but the knight’s vigilance, no matter how dedicated, could not calm Corey’s mood.

Curiosity nipped at his heart. He was restless as a magpie in search of shiny objects. Turning to Mariel, laid a hand upon her forehead and murmured a short spell to ensure a deep and dreamless sleep.

Then, centering his spirit and calling upon the powers of the earth, Corey assumed the shape of Fox.

At once, sound illuminated the darkness. Corey’s sharp ears detected the scratch of a cricket’s legs, the rumble of a mole beneath the earth, the scuffle of a sleepy thrush shifting its position on a high branch.

Flattening his tail and lifting a paw, he turned his ears forward then back, until he caught the steady resonance of Borten’s breath some twenty paces away. Having determined the position of the knight, Corey crept off in the opposite direction.

The mage retraced their path along the stream, trotted over the ridge, and picked his way down the slope beyond. At the edge of the young wood, he settled on his haunches and wrapped a soft tail around his feet, eyes fixed on the west, where fires of the Syrnte camp dotted the grassy vale. After indulging in a meticulous grooming of his paws, Corey lifted his snout and listened again.

The valley was rife with voles digging up roots and chewing on sedges. Nervous squeaks floated low over the ground, carried away by the slightest breeze. Their sweet smell of oil and salt made Corey’s mouth water. His stomach gave a plaintive plea. He trotted forward a few paces and crouched, tail extended behind him as he gauged distance with scent and sound.

Rodents within striking range ceased all movement, but Corey could smell each one, and the occasional shiver or muted alarm call betrayed them. He did not delay his decision, but sprang into the air and pounced on the nearest. It squirmed and squealed its distress even as Fox scooped it up and snapped the delicate bones with a few hard chomps.

Warm blood wet Corey’s tongue and then the vole was gone, carried whole down his throat and adding a satisfying weight to his belly.

Leaving the other voles in peace, the mage continued in the direction of the Syrnte, keeping just inside the line of trees. He did not intend to wander close. There would be dogs to pick up his scent, servants anxious to protect their masters’ chickens, men with more than a passing interest in securing a fine pelt.

But much could be heard and smelled by Fox from a safe distance, and what Corey sought was a familiar voice, or a whispered spell. Something that might afford insight into the magic upon which the Syrnte now depended.

He trotted toward the flickering torches until the muffled din of the camp blossomed into a rich tapestry of discrete noises: lowing oxen and stamping horses, taunts of men well into their drink, the hiss of a soldier relieving himself, the high-pitched laughter of a whore.

Then a strand of melody separated itself from the midnight hum, reaching toward Corey with haunting intensity.

May the Gods spare leaves from touching you as they fall…

The fur on his neck rose. Corey recognized the song, a daring verse attributed to Lithia, lover of the mage warrior Caedmon and one of the great magas who endured the long war against the People of Thunder.

May the rain cease drenching your body

May the earth stop kissing your feet…

The music tightened around his throat, a trapper’s noose pulling him forward. He paused just outside the flickering arc of light cast by torches, heart palpitating against his ribcage, head low to the ground, back arched and tail tucked between hind legs as he paced.

May the Gods erase your constant gaze

Your precise words

Your perfect smile

Spying a corridor of shadows, Corey slipped into it, moving stealthily between stacks of crates and untended carts, heeding the sound of footsteps and shying away from the mangy stink of dogs.

May they extinguish you without warning

In a burst of flame

An explosion of ice

At last he drew near. Creeping underneath a cart, Corey lowered himself on his furry stomach and scooted forward. A table well-lit by numerous torches came into view, laden with food and drink, occupied by boisterous men. Next to it, a small group of musicians. And among them, his sweetest voice, his finest music: Adiana.

If all this should fail, let death take me

So as not to see you always

In each moment

In all my visions

Her eyes glittered like stone. Bruises discolored her face. Yet her song was as impassioned as ever, meticulously executed through its climax.

At the table’s head sat a powerfully built man who watched her with a predatory gaze. The others kept to their drink and conversation, while a handful of willing whores provided welcome distraction.

The closing cadence was met with hearty applause, soon silenced by the imposing leader, who announced the end of the meal. Officers, servants, women, and musicians took their leave.

Only Adiana remained seated with back straight and eyes downcast, hands folded on her lap, hair a river of burnished gold in the flickering light.

“Come,” he said, and she obeyed.

Accepting the wine he offered, Adiana drank not as a woman savoring its sweet bite, but as one intent on losing herself in a misty stupor.

The man pulled her into a rough embrace, loosened her bodice, and assailed her soft flesh. The emptied cup slipped from Adana’s fingers. Her aura convulsed in a violent tempest of remorse, desire, revulsion, desperation.

A low growl escaped Corey’s throat. He scuttled backwards into deeper shadows, until the undisturbed rhythm of the camp assured him no one had heard. He flinched at the sound of plates and cups clattering to the ground, followed by the Syrnte commander’s feral groan. Adiana’s cries began to pierce the night.

Corey rose, shook the dust out of his fur, and sneezed.

Without looking back, he departed the camp along the same shadow-filled path through which he had come.

***

In the morning, flame throated warblers, yellow breasted thrushes, and black tailed chickadees summoned a reluctant sun.

With stiff muscles and bleary eyes, Corey abandoned the post he had taken over from Borten and wandered down to the stream to refresh his face and fill his water skin.

Mariel and the knight emerged from their resting place as the mage climbed back up the bank.

Wary of the proximity of the Syrnte, they took their meager breakfast of tart summer berries in silence. Corey prepared tea to warm their hands and bellies. Mariel finished her meal first and, unable to contain her restlessness, started throwing her knife, hitting every mark she chose.

“Your tutor is also skilled with the blade,” Corey commented. “Did she teach you?”

“Yes.” Mariel extended her hand toward the beech where she had just embedded the blade. With a brief spell, she called the knife back to her grip. “Maga Eolyn taught me how to use the knife, and now Sir Borten is going to teach me how to use the sword.”

The knight sputtered over his drink, smiled, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If that is what you want, Mariel, then we may start today, once we have put some distance between us and that army. I’m certain Maga Eolyn would be pleased.”

“No, she would not.” Mariel’s tone was neither insolent nor argumentative, simply subdued with truth. “But I suspect even Maga Eolyn has come to realize, as I have in these days recently passed, that one cannot live in this world without preparing for war.”

They continued east as Borten had proposed, keeping to the narrow valley with its clear, bubbling stream. Squirrels chattered from low perches. Once in a while a crow cawed from some solitary branch.

Corey could see from the darting of Borten’s eyes and the grim set of his mouth that the animals’ attentions made him nervous. While the mage shared his concern, he found some comfort in the knowledge that the Syrnte were not very gifted when it came to the language of woodland animals. What were obvious signals to Corey and Borten might well pass unnoticed, even by a skilled Syrnte scout.

By midday, the sun had warmed the forest, though its light barely penetrated the broad leaves of oak and elm that dominated the grove through which they were passing.

Corey’s gut tightened with a sudden spasm, as if someone had fastened a rope around his entrails and was pulling them out. He would have blamed the vole he swallowed the night before, but he knew better. Coming to a halt, he watched Borten and Mariel ahead of him. Then he looked back down the path they were leaving behind.

He drew a deep breath, then patted his medicine belt and the hilt of his knife. “Well. I suppose this is as far as I come today. Mariel!”

The girl stopped and regarded him with a questioning gaze. Corey strode forward and handed her Eolyn’s staff.

“Be a good maga and return this to your tutor when you see her again,” he said. “Return it whole, or she will surely blame me for any damage it has suffered.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And you, Borten.” Corey turned to the knight. “I’m loath to admit it, but you’re a good man. A worthy servant of the King and a skilled protector of the magas. Keep this one safe, as I would very much like to see her again.”

“What are you up to?” Borten said suspiciously.

Corey cleared his throat, unaccustomed to uncertainty, to the nervous flexing of his hands. “It would seem I am going back. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. Go back, and follow that army.”

A ring of metal, and Corey found the point of Borten’s sword at his throat.

“It seems that you are not pleased by my decision.”

“I would be most happy not to have you with us, Mage Corey. But if you are captured—or worse, turn yourself over willingly, something I would not put past you—what they learn from you may well destroy us. I will slay you before allowing you to return that way.”

Corey glanced at Mariel, who watched them wide-eyed. He drew a resigned breath. “I’m going back because Adiana is with them.”

“What?” Mariel’s exclamation startled a small flock of birds out of a nearby fir.

“Hush, child!” Corey scolded. “Or they will find us yet.”