The Dreaming Hunt (4 page)

Thank the stars his wife was not alive to see this day. Losing Kendrick would have killed her. By the Void, it was killing him.

He would send out a new batch of scouts on the morrow as soon as the rains abated. And he would bid them to search farther afield. Somebody, somewhere, must know something about the fate of his son.

His gut twisted with guilt at diverting resources that had been allocated for seeking the Sleeping King's regalia to the search for his son. Young Will and Raina had learned that the regalia was necessary to restore the king's spirit to his body. Aurelius could not openly divert Mage's Guild resources to the hunt for regalia any more than High Matriarch Lenora could. Thus, the task had fallen to him to quietly advance the quest. Until Kendrick had gone missing.

The three great Culkellen coursing hounds that were his constant companions and currently dozing in front of the fire lifted their heads in unison, announcing the arrival of someone. Leland looked up to see his seneschal standing in the doorway.

“M'lord, ye've a guest. Rather, a party of 'em. Shall I tell them to come back in the morn at a decent hour?”

“Who are they?” His stomach leaped. Scouts, mayhap? With news of Kendrick? Who else would show up at his door at this hour?

“I dunno. But they's rough-looking sorts. Roguish. Shifty.”

Scouts, for sure
. “Show them to the trophy room. I'll take their reports immediately.”

Leaving the wolfhounds to their naps, he strode to his receiving hall eagerly. Its familiar, rustic comfort washed over him. Trophies from decades of hunting and gifts collected over a lifetime of public service adorned the wood-paneled walls: the head of the Boar of Hyland Heath, the Spirit Stag's antlers, a huge furred skin from the Bear of the Wylde Wood. The great hewn oak beams spanning the ceiling felt heavy overhead tonight. Or perhaps it was merely the weight of worry pressing down on him.

“Here they be, m'lord,” the seneschal announced from behind him.

Leland whirled, expecting to see the familiar faces of his men. But instead, five rakasha—white tiger changelings if the fine striped fur on their faces was any indication—prowled silently into the hall.

Their wet clothing was, indeed, rough. Fraying at the edges. But their weapons—high quality at a glance—gleamed. Sheaths well oiled. Grips smooth from use. He scanned their faces, his gaze returning to the big, powerful-looking one with the matching pair of swords in his belt. He frowned. “Do I know you?”

“Name's Gorath. Don't think we've ever met.” The big rakasha gestured at the female wearing a bulky pouch, but displaying no other weapons, to his right. “My sister, Mara. And those are my three brothers.”

“What's your clan?” Leland queried. He'd definitely seen Gorath somewhere before. He just couldn't place the face.

“That's no matter to the likes of thee,” the tiger changeling growled.

“Hey, now,” the seneschal protested. “You cannot speak to the landsgrave thus—”

Gorath backhanded the aged seneschal viciously, dropping the fellow like a stone to the floor.

Leland might not have been a youngling himself, but his reflexes were still battle honed, and he had not been one of the greatest warriors in the land for nothing. He leaped for the nearest weapon, a Boki battle thorn—a heavy club covered thickly with razor-sharp thorns hanging beside the Boar of Hyland Heath. It wasn't a decent weapon against swords but better than his bare hands by far.

“This ain't gonna be much of a fight,” one of the brothers complained as the four male rakasha took up battle stances. “He's an old man, and a weakling human at that.”

Gorath muttered, “The Hart of Hyland is fierce. Do not underestimate him.”

Smart fellow
. Without sound or warning, Leland leaped toward the nearest rakasha, raising the great battle club as he jumped. He raked the weapon lightly across the fellow's face. For a heavy weapon, it actually called for a delicate touch in its delivery. The vicious thorns completely shredded the rakasha's face into a mass of blood and gore with that single blow. The cat changeling screamed as the poison intrinsic to the bloodthorn burned into his flesh, and he dropped to the floor, bleeding profusely.

The metallic swish of swords being drawn filled the air. The club was heavy and cumbersome—far too slow to defend against lighter, faster swords. He jumped back from the rakasha fighters, parrying the first flurry of blows clumsily. He was outnumbered, and as the cats fanned out to flank him, the tactic showed they were no amateurs at ambush.

He needed a wall at his back. Space in front to operate. A ranged weapon. To hold them off and stop them from rushing him all at once. Without looking over his shoulder, he reached for the silvani moonbow and quiver he knew to be hanging there. He yanked both off their pegs. Not his first choice in a weapon, but he was competent with a bow.

He nocked two arrows at once and shot them at the closest rakasha male, one of the remaining brothers. The fellow howled and went down as one arrow pierced his thigh and the other struck in the soft flesh of his groin.

“It burns! By the Void, it burns. Get it out of me!” the downed rakasha howled.

The female—a healer, apparently—ran over to him and yanked the arrows free as Leland loosed a third arrow at another one of the brothers. Although this rakasha flinched a little as the moonarrow struck his shoulder, he merely reached up and yanked the missile free himself and threw it to the floor.

The middle brother pounced, and Leland dodged to force the attacker through the pooled blood on the floor. The cat's boot skidded, throwing him off balance. Leland dodged the awkward upward swing, using the bow to block it. The slender wood shaft broke in his hand, and Leland threw himself backward, away from the next swing of lethal steel. He slammed into the long council table and landed on top of it. He spun his legs around and leaped off the far side of the table as he flung the broken bow aside.

Gorath raced around the end of the table to loom in front of him, and the remaining male stalked him from behind.

Leland grabbed a dragon's tongue spear favored by lizardmen. Its head forked into two points, hence the name. He lunged, jamming the double points into Gorath's chest. The blow should have dropped the cat changeling, but it did not. Odd.

Leland yanked at the weapon, but it would not come free. Forced to abandon it, he retreated, looking around frantically for another weapon. He became aware of barking, growling, and the scrabbling of great claws raking frantically at the door across the room. His hounds. If he could get over there, let them in, they'd even the odds. He backed away from Gorath toward the remaining brother who'd called him old and who was now regarding him rather more cautiously than before.

Across the table, the female had opened her pouch and fumbled within it. Given that her hands were not glowing with magic, he guessed she was an alchemist. Once she started lobbing gases at him, he was done for. He needed to do something to even the odds, and fast. He reached for the pendant hanging from a chain under his shirt. Where was the cursed thing? Gorath was almost upon him, and he had no shield or weapon to parry even the simplest blow. His fingers closed upon warm metal, and he blurted out the activation word just as both rakasha fighters leaped.

A darkness spell poured forth from the pendant, enveloping the room in a blackness so thick and impenetrable that no shape nor shadow could be seen within it.

Long trained in the art of blind fighting and a great deal more familiar with the layout of this room than his attackers, he ducked Gorath's wild sword swing and slid to the side around the big rakasha. He groped the wall and found the sword mounted beside a ram whose life the blade had taken. The grip fit his hand to perfection. Ahh, he remembered this blade. Nice balance. Weighted close to the hilt, just the way he liked his swords. It made for a fast blade tip.

He turned to face his attackers. Rakasha had the extraordinarily keen scent of their kind and would locate him soon enough. He wasted no time sliding to his right, closer to the smaller brother. If he could eliminate the other brothers, isolate Gorath one-on-one, he would stand a better chance against the powerful warrior.

He flicked his blade wide around the rakasha, playing the child's game of tapping a person on the shoulder while standing by the other one. Predictably, the rakasha swung right, giving his entire left side undefended to him.

Leland swung for the body, but at the last second, the rakasha must have sensed the blow coming and threw out a gauntleted forearm to catch the blade. With shocking speed, the changeling parried, slicing across the meat of Leland's left arm. It burned but not with poison. That was a boon, at least. The wound felt deep but not mortal. And the arm still functioned. He set aside the pain and fought on.

The sword came at him again, and he parried and riposted blow after blow. The unnamed rakasha brother was fast even without benefit of seeing his foe. Leland made a short, chopping swing, channeling all his skill and intent into delivering a deadly blow to his foe. The blade bit through the rakasha's leather jerkin, tasting flesh. The power of the blow drove the blade deep into the creature's side, guiding the edge unerringly between ribs and into the vital tissues below. The attacker went down with a howl of agony.

Leland yanked at the blade, but it had sunk deep, and the rakasha's bones and gristle did not release it easily. Gorath charged, and Leland had no choice but to abandon the blade and flee.

He raced around the table, gauging its length in his mind. He charged across the open space of the room, hurdling the low table between the pair of big chairs by the fireplace. Something whizzed past his ear and smashed against the wall before him with a crash of breaking glass. He dived and rolled to the side lest the gas from the broken alchemy globe find him.

He jumped for the carved wooden chest in the corner and threw up the lid, picturing the contents in his mind. Thank the Lady he was a creature of habit, always packing his war chests in the same way. He grabbed a handful of alchemical potions in his left hand and had just reached for a spare sword when something slammed into his right leg, low. The power of the blow knocked his foot out from under him, and he went down hard on his right shoulder. His entire arm went numb, but by some miracle, he managed to retain a grip on the sword.

He rolled and barely avoided the pouncing weight of the big rakasha. His arm was partially trapped beneath his body, but he managed a truncated swing at his foe nonetheless. The tip of the sword nicked something, and the rakasha snarled in rage. It felt as if he'd cut the cat's face.

It wasn't much, but it bought him time to roll to his feet and smash the flat of his blade into the side of the cat's head with considerable force. He sensed the cat staggering and going down to one knee, shaking his head, dazed.

Another glass globe exploded on the wall above his head. Liquid ran down the paneling, the wood sizzling as a metallic odor of acid rose from it. That had been entirely too close for comfort. Worse, the alchemist had moved in front of the door and the hounds.

Leland ran toward the far corner of the room to draw her away from the door. But his right leg was not working properly, and his boot squished, full of blood, with each step.

As he half ran, limping, he tucked the sword under his arm and used his free hand to unstopper one of the potion vials. He tossed the contents down, shuddering at the awful taste of an alchemy shield.

Something light slammed into his back, and the tinkle of broken glass trailed behind him. A dim flash of light accompanied the magic of his alchemy shield being burned up. He swore as the flash gave away his position, and he dived to the side. His injured leg barely held his weight, and he staggered, stumbled, and righted himself awkwardly.

He unstoppered another vial and chugged the contents as he heard the female rakasha muttering the command to activate a gas poison behind him. Another globe struck him in the back. Gads, she was fast.

He turned to face her as he drank his third, and last, shield potion. He sensed Mara standing at nearly the far end of the room, lobbing her globes with considerable strength to be reaching him all the way down here.

He dodged an incoming globe and envisioned the walls on either side of him for likely weapons. All that hung on the wall nearby was the pelt of a great black cave bear. He snatched it down, and as yet another poison flew toward him, he lifted the pelt to catch the glass globe. The rare and terribly expensive fur disintegrated in his hands as acid ate through it.

He had to do something to stop her or at least slow down Gorath, who was rising to his feet even now. He was no expert at throwing daggers, but he remembered a brace of them down the wall. Better, he was able to reach the door and throw it open. His hounds charged into the room furiously, but stopped, confused by the total darkness.

Using his enhanced, blind-fighting senses, Leland both sensed and heard Gorath raising his nose and taking a long sniff. And then the big cat changeling turned toward him and advanced stealthily. He frowned. He sensed the cat holding his clawed hands held in an unusual above-and-below defensive pose.

Anton
. That was where he'd seen the big rakasha before. Memory burst over Leland of that odd defensive style. Gorath and several of his Clan Kithmar kin had been with the governor in the Forest of Thorns last spring at the clandestine meeting between Anton and the Boki thane, Ki'Raiden. The meeting whereat Anton made a deal with the Boki traitor to assassinate Landsgrave Talyn.
That
was what this attack was about. An assassination engineered by his longtime nemesis, Anton Constantine.

In his momentary distraction, Leland missed sensing an incoming globe and was not fast enough to dodge. It broke against his arm, and his magical shield lit up. Worse, the seneschal was beginning to rouse where he had fallen by the doors, groaning aloud. Gorath reacted sharply to the sound and charged toward it.