by
Jonathan J. Schlosser
I crested the hill, shading my eyes from the sun's harsh rays with my hand. Below me--truly, far below me; a distance of nearly half a league--the hill swept out into a vast plain. The expanse stretched toward the Kashir mountains on the horizon as if it wanted to reach them and convince them to sink into the earth, joining the two surfaces in equality. The mountains protested, their bulk blocking the grassland's progress as surely as an infantry battalion barricaded a city's gates.
I shook my head to clear the allusions of war. The angry red incision running from my shoulder to my wrist began to throb as it always did at such times. I massaged it gently. The pain was not intense, not as it had been in the weeks after the wound had been inflicted, but I disliked it all the same. I knew it would scar, and that also annoyed me. Some viewed scars as badges of courage, but I was not among their number. I saw them as a sign of my former failing, an obvious testament to my shortcomings.
Lowering my hand to the reigns, I gave Valiant a slight kick in the side to get him moving. He trotted forward in obedience; I scratched his neck to reward him for that. He looked extremely pleased, both at my touch and at the grass that covered the expanse before us. The Wastelands had been more rock and sand then vegetation. Even when native flora had presented itself, I had been reluctant to let the horse eat it for fear of poisons.
It took us a while to reach the bottom of the hill; distance always appeared less before one was crossing it. I enjoyed the moments of peace, though, soaking in the sun's warmth greedily. I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation, but I didn't dare. The Nairife generally wouldn't venture this far south; but then, a lone human rider wouldn't generally travel through their lands and emerge out the far side either.
At least not in pieces that were large enough to be recognizable.
My mind wandered, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Valiant's hooves. I drifted back over the last few months. I had not anticipated a trip through the Wastelands. It wasn't a path any person would choose unless it was the last left on earth. Not any sane person, anyway. But therein lay my problem: my quarry was not sane, but rather deranged and unstable to an extent even I was not entirely sure of. Still, he had traveled across the Wastelands, and I, bound by honor and duty, had done the same.
It had not been an easy trip. The Nairife did not take lightly to intruders. They fought me at every turn, attempting to kill me by brute force, trickery, or even assassination. Despite their efforts, a quick wit and a slightly quicker sword had kept me alive and relatively unharmed. The wound to my arm protested that I could have done a better job, but I knew that the injury was minor compared to what happened to most men in my place.
We arrived at a road, a winding trail snaking its way across the prairie, and I reined Valiant to a halt. I dismounted, dropping to one knee and running my fingers lightly through the dirt. I looked up at the horse. "Which way, boy?"
Valiant snorted and pawed the ground with his right hoof. I laughed. "East is it?"
My gut told me he was right. It was a coincidence; Valiant could no more understand me than he could speak in reply--with the exception of the simple commands I had taught him during his training. Still, I had found that coincidences could serve their purpose just as well as any plans I could formulate.
I pursed my lips and stared at the horizon. The mountains wrapped around to the east. A small town sat in the foothills, Urik, just a minor settlement that supported itself through farming and trade with the caravans on the way to the western cities. It was to those cities that I wished to go, not to Urik. There was nothing there; it would be a disastrous waste of time if I arrived there and found that my prey had eluded me. Still, if I had evidence that he had gone in that direction, I would have to make haste to catch him before he arrived. I had no idea what he would do to the townspeople if I did not, but I doubted it would be good.
I began walking slowly down the side of the road, careful to keep off the dirt lest I rub out any signs on accident. My prey maintained a high level of caution for the first hundred feet, staying in the grass so that he wouldn't leave marks. After that, though, he got careless. Hoof prints appeared out of nowhere, as if an apparition had simply appeared on the road. I smiled grimly; they pointed toward Urik.
I swung onto Valiant's back and pushed him to a fast trot. The sun had already set in on the downward half of its arc; time was not on my side.
The man I was searching for was named Yessile Domin'u, and he was not the kind of person one desired to run into on the street. He had been a mage of intermediate power, gifted in a number of areas but excelling in none. That lack of success had driven him into a violent rage when yet another young pupil surpassed him, and he had murdered the student that night as the other slept. The evidence had been obvious and abundant, especially for another mage; it had taken the head of the school, Chief Mage Singja, mere hours to level his list of suspects down to one. Accompanied by a full platoon of Imperial guards, Singja had confronted Yessile.
What had happened afterwards was unclear, though rumors abounded like weeds. The official story was that the two mages had fought, with Singja easily defeating Yessile and stripping him of his powers--something only the Chief of their Line or the Master himself was capable of. Singja had them attempted to probe Yessile's mind in order to obtain the full details of the murder. Courts and judges were unneeded for justice within the school. Somehow in the midst of that process, Yessile had summoned the last of his strength and turned it against the probe with a ferocious assault. By all rights that should have been impossible; whether that meant Singja had done a poor job or that Yessile was stronger than anyone realized, I had no idea. Regardless, Singja had been thrown against the wall and knocked unconscious, as had the guards at the door.
Yessile had not escaped without scars, however. In his final attack he had damaged his own mind. Not being a mage myself, I was not sure how this had occurred, only that it had and that the repercussions had been grave indeed. Yessile was no longer the same man he had been. His mind, warped and twisted, had lost all grip on reality. He had managed to escape Singja's tower, and fled to the countryside. I, being the closest to him, had been summoned to recapture him before he used his magick against innocents. Or at least to slow him down until a mage could arrive.
Valiant and I reached Urik as the last rays of light spilled over the horizon like streams of burnt gold. The red light burned upward, a backdrop of fire and blood. If it was an omen, I hoped it was for my enemies. Since I had not overtaken the one I pursued, I worried that it was not.
Urik sat nested in the foothills like a kipstay swallow's nest, surrounded by hills and the forest. A small stream wound its way through the heart of the town, providing clear drinking water and irrigation for the farms in the plains. A number of trees grew up in between the buildings, giving the town a relaxed, tranquil feeling that I cherished. The buildings themselves boasted a rugged construction, firmly nailed together from thick planks. Rocks and mortar surrounded the bottom meter of most of the buildings, strengthening the bases and insuring that they wouldn't be swept away if the river was ever to flood.
Despite the good feelings the rural village inspired, I rode into town with my hand very near the hilt of my sword. Peasants nodded to me as I passed, though none made any attempts at conversation. They knew me, but most by reputation only. They all dressed in simple tunics and dresses woven out of a thick cloth that appeared to less than comfortable, but capable of surviving the labor of everyday life. The cloth could be dyed whatever color the wearer preferred, but most chose a drab brown or gray that hid grime and dirt.
I dismounted in front of a long, two-story building and tied Valiant to the hitching post outside the double doors. Lanterns shown from inside as well as from the rafters of the porch that stretched along the entire length of the establishment. Sturdy beams made out of the whole trunks of great oak trees held up the roof and showed no signs of ever losing the battle. A sign on the door identified the Inn as the Urik Palace, and I smiled slightly at the title. It was the nicest building in town, but that was not a hard prize to win.
The doors swung inward at my touch and I strode inside. I stopped there, surveying the room. Circular tables dotted the floor, lights hanging above them. People sat at many of the tables, eating, drinking, and talking after a long day of labor. A fire burned at the far end of the hall, crackling and emitting a wave of warmth that would become even more important as the night set in. The smell of various meats and spices hit me full force; my stomach ached at the teasing.
"Jaren caLaet. You're looking terrible as usual."
I turned toward the voice, a smiled parting my lips. "With service that like, I don't know how you keep this place open."
A short man stood before me, his bald scalp shining in the lamplight. His stomach pushed at the waistline of his tunic, threatening to overpower the sash holding the gray and red garment together. The thin mustache above his upper lip defined his facial features. He smiled broadly and pulled me into a rough embrace. "It's good to see you, my friend."
"You as well, Hegram." I extricated myself from his grasp. "You have any food for a weary traveler?"
"Only the best. What would you like?"
"Anything that's been grilled and drowned in sauce."
Hegram laughed, a hearty sound that spread almost as much warmth as the fire. "I'll tell the cook." He wheeled around and made for the kitchen, leaving me to find a seat. I picked one near the far wall, so that I faced the door. The booth I sat in was not padded, but was still a welcome comfort after days of riding.
I again examined the room, this time paying closer attention to those within it. None of the patrons looked threatening. They joked and laughed with each other, or tore into their food with the ambition bred of a hard day's work. A bard sat near the fire, strumming his fiddle softly and singing in hushed tones of great kings who were now centuries dead. Few women were in evidence, which didn't surprise me. They mostly kept to their homes and children, while the men worked in the fields, forests, or mines. It was those same men who, at the end of the day, took the time to relax and socialize before they too returned home.
I sighed. And they were the ones who would die if I didn't located Yessile, and soon.
Hegram returned with my meal. He set the plate in front of me and sat, leaning his elbows on the tabletop. I didn't waste any time. My hunting knife served well enough to cut the meat, and, coupled with the fork Hegram had brought, soon sliced it into a number of uneven cubes. I began stuffing those into my mouth as fast as I could, hardly pausing to savor the taste.
"You look like you haven't seen a proper meal in days."
I raised my head, wiping the red sauce from my lip with the back of my hand. "I haven?t."
"Where have you been?"
I paused. "The Wastelands."
Hegram, to his credit, didn't let his jaw drop open as far as I would have expected. I wondered if maybe the full weight of my statement hadn't hit him yet.
"How in the name of Xeryc did you wind up there?" The surprise and awe were not as well-concealed in his voice as they were on his face.
I chewed for a moment, contemplating how much I could and could not reveal of my mission. The details on Yessile were confidential, as a technicality, but I could probably reveal them at my discretion. And I did need Hegram's help, so he would have to be brought in. I knew I could trust him not to tell anyone else. I began with the basics. "The Order sent me."
The Order was different than, though related to, the Line of Mages. We consisted of warriors, proficient in martial skills before magick. I had been trained since birth in the ways of the sword, lance, and bow. Riding horses, though still painful when done for extensive periods, felt almost more natural than walking. I also had the basic survival skills that would allow me to live off the land for as long as I needed with little chance of starving to death. I was known as a _Tarincon_--an ancient word literally meaning 'He who carries a sword.' My service was to the Master, the head of both the Line of Mages and the Order.
But that wasn't to say that _Tarincons_ were _entirely_ opposed to the use of magick. We each had a single power, chosen for us by the chief mage when we turned fourteen. These powers varied like shells on the shore of the Talon Ocean. Some were gifted in healing, some in foresight, others in the arts of nature. Many were given the ability to communicate without speaking, allowing them to coordinate their efforts in battle even when that battle was spread out over a hundred leagues. I, however, was nearly unique. I was telekinetic.
"I assumed as much," Hegram said, referring to my slightly obvious admission. "But why? Humans haven't breached the borders of the Wastelands for nearly six decades."
"And with good reason." I nodded, remembering the Nairife howling with rage as they fell before my sword. "Someone else, of great interest to the Master, crossed over before I did. It is him I seek, so I had no choice but to follow."
"And who would that be?"
A grim expression eclipsed my face. "A fallen mage, by the name of Yessile. He is not a full-fledged _condramage_, not by a long shot, but he is still dangerous."
Hegram sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Then your stopping here was more than a social visit."
"Isn't it always?"
"Very true, my friend. What do you need to know?"
I finished the meal, washing it down with a long drink and setting the empty mug in front of me. "Anything and everything. If there have been any strangers here lately, especially traveling out of the west, I'll want to know what they looked like, where they were headed. I was close to him, as far as I could tell; he probably arrived shortly before I did."
"How shortly?"
I shrugged. "An hour, at the most. Maybe less."
Hegram rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the muscles gently. "We had one man come in, not thirty minutes ago. He was on horseback and cloaked, so I didn't get a good look at him. He is the only one in days, though."
"Where was he headed?"
"He rode through town, toward Panithon's Pass."
"He was going to cross the mountains?" The Kashirs, while not the most dangerous of the mountain ranges, ran a close second. Any attempt to get through them without a well-outfitted escort was considered foolish and most likely deadly. Of course, so was crossing the Wastelands, but Yessile had done that and lived.
"I believe so."
My heart sank. Fadrellon, the land of the _guerralim_, lay beyond the pass. If Yessile got through and allied himself with the half-breed creatures--part Nairife and part man--he could become a danger to more than the border settlements.
I stood. "Then I must take my leave."
"But night is falling," Hegram said, standing as well.
I smiled. "There is no better time for an ambush."
I rode out, spurring Valiant into a faster run than I knew he--or I--wanted. Still, I had no time to waste. I was glad that Yessile had left the people of Urik alone; he had no quarrel with them, but I didn't know exactly what he was capable of, and widespread murder wasn't out of the question. The Master had hinted at that in his orders to me, which I had received directly from him instead of through the usual chain of command. Hearing his voice echo in my head had been unnerving, as I was not used to such things, but also meant that Yessile was considered enough of a threat that protocol and procedure had been abandoned in favor of haste.
I left the trail as soon as I could, skirting it but always keeping to the same general direction. I wanted to beat my prey to the Pass, but I didn't want him to know that I had done so. Surprise would give me a few seconds advantage, and I knew from experience that such a detail could change the course of entire battles.
Rocks and fallen trees littered the ground, forcing Valiant to be light on his feet and me to be constantly on alert. I ducked under branches where I could, rode around them where I could not. Darkness set in completely. I momentarily wished that my gift allowed me to see in the dark, but pushed the thought aside. Coveting things I would never possess wouldn't get me anywhere. I smiled. Plus, then I would have been at a serious disadvantage during the day. That wouldn't have done at all.
I reached Panithon's Pass and slid off Valiant's back without making a sound. I unclasped my cloak and lay it over the horse's neck, keeping only my shirt and pants, both of which were tight-fitting and lightly armored. The greens and blacks of my clothing blended into my surroundings and made me all but invisible.
The ledge I stood on overlooked the breach where it wound through the forest below me. I lay down on the rocky ground. A similar ledge rose up a dozen meters away, opposite my position. I looked it over quickly, decided my quarry was not mimicking my procedure from the other side, and turned my attention back to the trail.
It didn't take long for Yessile to appear. The crunch of branches and leaves beneath his horse's hooves alerted me to his presence long before I could see him. Apparently he didn't put as much stock in stealth as I did. I held my breath. My hand closed around the black leather binding on my sword's hilt, and I pulled it from its scabbard. Extending two fingers, I touched my forehead, then my heart, and then the blade in the tradition of the Order. The steel was cold against my fingertips. I ran my hand lightly over the words carved there, remembering their promise of strength and letting it bolster my courage. It would be a night of blood, and I hoped it wouldn't be mine.
Yessile rode into the far end of the pass, and I got my first look at him. He was carrying a torch, though I knew he had conjured it up through magick. The flame cast a deep red light on the walls of the Pass and played over his face. His hood rested on his shoulders, giving me a clear view of his olive skin, sharp, hawk-like features topped by a predominant hook of a nose, and eyes as black as the night. His thick, dark hair hung into his eyes and down the nape of his neck. His build was slender, almost wiry. I could find no sign of emotion on his face.
I let him get directly below me before I struck. I drew my legs under me and propelled myself over the edge with a lunge. My sword glistened in the crimson light as I raised it over my head. Most people, in accordance with their own warped views on warfare, would have let out a battle cry; I did not. I wanted the extra few seconds before contact to pass without Yessile having any idea that he was in danger.
Even that didn't help. Sensing me, Yessile flung himself backwards, off the horse. He extended his torch toward me and the red flame shot out like a snake's tongue. I twisted around and felt the space next to me crackle with heat and energy. I could smell the air burning.
My evasion threw me off balance and made it impossible for me to land on my feet. I hit the ground, rolled, and sprang back up with my sword in front of me. Yessile stood, the torch still in his hand, glaring. The horse was between us, preventing him from attacking me again. For the moment, anyway.
I dropped into a fighting crouch. "Put down your weapon and you'll live the day."
Yessile laughed. "Who are you to threaten a mage? I don't see the mark on your forehead."
The mark to which he referred was a black circle with a ring running around it like a noose. It was tattooed on the forehead of every new mage the day he entered the school. It lasted for life, irremovable unless the Master or the Chief Mage deemed it necessary. The mark did not give a Mage his power, but served to identify him as one of their number. Yessile's own mark was gone, torn off when Singja had attempted to remove his powers.
I nodded at him, indicating just that. "Nor do I."
Yessile held the torch up and released it. It hovered there, above his outstretched arm, and began spinning. The movement was slow at first, but increased in speed and momentum. "True, I no longer bear the mark." Yessile nodded at the torch, grinning. "But as you can see, I am far from powerless."
He flicked his wrist forward before I could respond. The horse fell to the side, thrown by magick as if a battering ram had slammed into its flank. The torch flew at me, crossing the distance in a split second. I flicked my blade sideways on pure instinct. The torch collided with it, showering sparks across my face and shoulders, but dropped to the ground.
Yessile dove at me with a roar like nothing I had ever heard before--the cry of someone who has entirely lost his grip on reality. I shifted my weight forward and took the impact. My sword flew from my hand. The muscles in my upper body, strong but by no means what one would consider large, strained at the sudden collision. We both fell in a heap, crashing through the small undergrowth with as much grace as a pair of foot soldiers at a formal ball.
I grabbed Yessile around the neck, pinning both of his arms to his sides with one of mine. He bit into my shoulder; I felt the skin break and blood rush to the surface. I pulled my head back and then swung forward, slamming my forehead into his nose and upper lip. He grunted and jerked back; I let him go.
I leapt back to my feet. My sword was gone; it might as well have been with Valiant on top of the northern cliff. I reached behind my back and pulled out a long, curved knife. The blade rang as it came free.
Yessile still lay on the ground, blood covering his face. I stalked toward him. Taking him alive had been the Master's preference; I would do it if I could, but there were no guarantees.
The mage raised one hand over his head. He uttered three words in a guttural, harsh language that I didn't recognize. A point of light appeared a meter over his fingers, an eerie color somewhere between purple and red. It swirled like the vortex created when a glass of wine was lightly shaken in a circle. The sound of roaring wind clawed at my ears. I sprang into the air, my arm pulled back, aiming to drive the blade home. Before I reached Yessile, however, tendrils of light shot out from the main sphere and covered the knife. The blade was ripped from my fingers as if a giant, invisible hand had plucked it from my grasp. The weapon spun through the air and disappeared into the vortex.
I couldn't abort my dive, and I landed on top of Yessile unarmed and unprepared. He brought a knee up and dug into my gut. I felt the breath rush from my lungs in an instant. I tried to roll to the side, but his hand grabbed the collar of my shirt and held fast. He struck me across the face with a backhand blow that left my ears ringing. His fist came up and hit me again, this time in the temple, and my vision swam. Two feet planted themselves in my midsection and pushed; I felt myself sail through the air. I landed on my back, hard. Broken ribs throbbed in protest.
Yessile stood and wiped his face with his hand. He picked my sword up almost casually and walked over to me.
"You are pathetic." A glob of spit hit my face and stuck like a burr.
I forced my eyes to stay open even though the action nauseated me. "I'm not the one who killed a child while he slept."
A smile twisted Yessile's face. "I did what I had to," he said. "Did Singja send you?"
I shook my head.
Yessile's eyes widened. "The Master himself?" He threw his head back and laughed; the harsh sound shattered the crisp quiet of night. "That is all I ask. That is all I ever wanted." He turned his gaze back on me. "Now I am someone worthy of notice. There is more than one way to snare a Laterul."
I didn't respond. His twisted logic made sense, in a perverse manner, the way a child feels vindicated for crying when he doesn't get what he wants. Still, children are punished when such a commotion carries on too long. And I was getting quite sick of listening to him speak.
The fallen mage stepped forward and set the tip of my own sword against my throat. The point pressed into my skin, threatening to break it and snuff my life out if I so much as swallowed.
"Give my regards to Suris. The God of the Dead is always happy to receive new souls."
Shunning the pain that racked my body, I shook my head. "Give them yourself."
I reached out with my mind; the world around me took on a new life as I explored every inch of it in a heartbeat. I darted into and out of the crevices and through the shadows. Without moving an inch, I was as familiar with the terrain as if I had spent the last week studying nothing but Panithon's Pass. I knew every tree, every insect, every blade of grass. And, most importantly of all, every stone.
I latched onto two such objects, turning them into projectiles as I hauled them from the cliff's wall. Yessile didn't even have time to realize what had happened. The first stone, about the size of my fist, struck the blade of the sword and sent it spinning across the clearing. The second, decidedly larger and moving even more swiftly, connected solidly with the man's head. Bones pulverized with a wet thud. Yessile's face froze in an expression of surprise and outrage. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the ground.
I pulled myself to my feet and heard Valiant nicker from the top of the hill. I whistled twice to let him know I was still alive. My sword floated back to my hand at my call; I dropped it into its scabbard. I had a long trek ahead of me if I was going to return to the Master with Yessile's body, but I figured I deserved some rest for my troubles. A smile crossed my lips. Hopefully one free room remained at the Urik Palace.
Send your comments on this story to the author:
|
