A Man Betrayed (59 page)

He heard the sound
of screams through a filter of fire. People were rushing back and forth, blood
marking each body like a cattle brand. All around him destruction reigned;
walls collapsed as he passed, metals spat sparks, and timbers burst into
flames. The ground erupted into hills of dirt and stone, sending rocks blasting
through the air. Barrels exploded outward; their contents thrown hissing into
the blaze.
She had betrayed him.

Sorcery danced
around him like lightning.

He passed through
the chaos untouched. Enthralled and helpless to stop himself, he walked through
the garrison like the phantom of death.

The timber roof of
the main building caught light. It flared like kindling, turning the twilight
into midday with its brightness. Dark, ash-heavy smoke soon rivaled the light,
screening and choking and turning the courtyard into an abyss. The huge
crossbeam that supported the roof came crashing down to the floor, crushing two
guards and casting sparking splinters to the breeze. The outbuildings were soon
engulfed, followed by the stables and the gatehouse.

Horses and pigs
squealed. Men dashed across his path, clothes on fire, terror on their faces,
and screams on their lips. On Jack walked, sorcery crackling with every step.

The entrance came
into sight. The portcullis was up and the postern gate was alight. Jack stopped
and watched it bum. Air rushed past him, blowing hot and fast, sending his hair
streaming behind him. Up in the guard tower he spied a young guard trapped by
the flames, deciding whether to jump or be burned. Jack saw fear on his
smoke-blackened face. The flames came closer, licking at his heels. The man
made the sign of Borc's sword and jumped. The dull thud of his landing acted
like cold water to Jack. He forced himself to look at the guard's body. Blood
seeped treacle-slow from a gash in his head. His right leg bent outward at an
unnatural angle, and his fingers twitched as if he were strumming a lute.

Jack knew he had
to stop. This man didn't deserve to die. He had jumped to near-certain death,
yet his courage would be in vain if the sorcery didn't end.

He reached down
into himself. Down toward the source. It was like swimming against a tide of
light. Fast and furious the power raged. Belly-strong and sharp-minded, it
fought him all the way. The part of Jack that was still rational realized that
power couldn't exist without the pain of betrayal. Violent emotion was its
lifeblood. He tried to put Tarissa from his mind. Deeper and deeper, he went,
through layers of tissue alive and ringing with sorcery. Thrusting his thoughts
into the source, as surely as thrusting his hand into the fire, Jack struggled
to cut off the flow.

His mind was
seared, and like a piece of meat, the juices were sealed within. He couldn't
release the pain. Afraid and trembling, he opened his mouth and screamed:
"No!"

The sound had a
force of its own. It acted like a dagger, piercing the madness with the cool
gleam of steel. Jack's will rose up in its wake, pushing the sorcery back down
to the blood. There was one unbearable moment when his body felt torn in two,
and then everything coalesced, rearranging itself into a different but complete
form. A wave of suction ripped through his tissue, robbing the strength from
his muscles. It left Jack limp.

Suddenly he
couldn't stand, or raise an arm, or even blink an eyelid. He slumped onto the
ground. Feet away from the guard who had jumped from the battlements, Jack
gathered his last remaining store of strength and reached out toward the man's
twitching hand. Pain clawed down his spine and his arm felt as if it were
buried under a mountain of earth. Still he pushed on, becoming obsessed with
the desire to touch the guard. It was the only thing that counted in the fiery
hell that had become the night. Inch by inch he dragged his arm across the dirt
until he could move no more. A finger's length divided them. The guard, as if
aware of Jack's efforts, opened his eyes. They were a clear and peaceful blue.

Slowly, his whole
body quivering with spasms, pain flaring to cloud his bright eyes, the guard
reached out to meet Jack's hand. Jack felt rough fingers touching his and his
heart thrilled with joy. Tarissa was gone. The pain was gone. He and the guard,
lying side by side on the scorched earth, were the only things that mattered.

Sure that the
power had been withdrawn, Baralis stepped out of his bed. He was irritated to
see that he was shaking. Donning a fine ermine robe, he made his way to the
fire. His hands ached badly tonight. As always there was a jug of holk resting
amongst the embers. Pouring himself a brimming cup, he downed the warm and
spicy liquid in one swallow. Only when the holk had worked its trade upon his
hands, did he feel calm enough to think about what he had just experienced.

Tonight, somewhere
in the Known Lands, someone had performed a drawing that defied all reason.

Woken up from an
early, fitful sleep, Baralis felt the first wave of the most powerful sorcery
he had ever encountered. Terrifying in its strength, it sent spasms racing down
his spine, spiking his very soul. There seemed no end to it. On and on the
power flowed. First for seconds, then for minutes, then for
hours.
Never
before had he felt anything to match it. Even now the very substance of the air
crackled with the aftermath. Half the city of Bren had probably awakened in
their beds. Few would know why.

Baralis was
afraid. The person who had done this was powerful beyond telling.

Gathering his
strength, he sent out his perception. Already weak from his journey to Larn the
day before, he could do little but test the essence of the sorcery. Like a man
holding a wet finger to the wind, he could tell from which direction the
aftermath came: west. But, if he wasn't mistaken, not as far west as the
kingdoms. Which meant Halcus or Annis or Highwall. A terrible thought occurred
to him: could it be Kylock, suddenly free from the tyranny of drugs? Baralis'
heart quickened at the thought. Quickly he tasted the air around him. The
sorcery played upon his tongue with a familiar tune. Not Kylock. No. Someone
else. Someone whom he had encountered before. Someone who had copied Tavalisk's
library word for word.

The baker's boy.

Risking sanity,
and with no help from his potions, Baralis' drew the aftermath into his mind.
Such lightness, such pain, such flickering flames. And then the clear blue eyes
of a man close to death. It was all there, written upon the ether in a foreign
tongue. There was little he could make sense of and no time for translation.
One thing was certain, though: Jack was responsible for the drawing. He had not
been mistaken. All sorcery had its own unique signature, and once Baralis
perceived an individual's pattern, he never forgot it. This was the third time
now that the baker's boy had signed his name across a drawing.

He exhaled deeply,
eager to be free of the alien force. It left him, but not willingly. He felt it
clawing away at the fiber of his brain, trying to restructure his mind to mimic
that from which it came. Baralis was too much the master to let it gain a
footing. No one's aftermath was going to make a madman out of
him.

Still, there was a
price to pay. He was overcome with a terrible, draining weakness. No longer
possessing strength enough to return to his bed, Baralis sat by the fire and
sipped his holk. He knew he needed to sleep, to recuperate like an invalid, but
his thoughts raced ahead, leaving his body to fend for itself.

What was the
purpose behind Jack's power? Such a gift for talent on such a scale could be
neither taught nor inherited-was not given without purpose. Baralis searched
his mind, looking for connections and prophecies and patterns in the dance.
Something began to niggle away at him. Something heard the day before at the
table of Larn's high priests, when they had spoken about the knight:

"He came
here for a seering, we showed him the way. "

"What way
was that?"

"To the
kingdoms. "

The boy the knight
was looking for came from the kingdoms. The hairs prickled on the back of
Baralis' neck. It was Jack, the baker's boy. He knew it without a doubt. Larn
lived in fear of his former scribe.

What did it mean?
And, more importantly, how did it affect him? Baralis warmed his hands upon the
holk jug as he tried to make sense of this latest development. The boy was
important; he had great powers, the wiseman Bevlin had sent a knight to search
for him, and Larn didn't want him found. What was it the priests had said
before he left?

"Our fate
is connected with yours. As you rise, so do we. "

Then if the boy
was a threat to Larn, he was a threat to him, as well. In a way Baralis already
knew this. He had known it all those months ago when eight score of burnt
loaves had been transmuted into dough. Jack was a thorn in his side then, and
it seemed he still was now. He should have killed him when he had the chance.

The key to this
mystery was the wiseman Bevlin; he alone knew the true purpose of the boy. Only
he was dead, very probably due to the efforts of Larn, and his secrets had gone
with him to the grave.

Or had they? The
base of the jug had been in the fire and Baralis spotted ash on his fingers.
Absently, he rubbed the silvery powder away. The wiseman himself might have
turned to dust, but his books and his records would still remain. Yes, that was
it. Tomorrow he would look into procuring Bevlin's possessions. A man like that
was bound to have consigned his thoughts to parchment. All he had to do was
locate who currently held them and make him an offer he couldn't refuse.

With a plan
decided upon, Baralis felt in control once more. He would get to the bottom of
this. The baker's boy might have great ability, but experience and cunning
always won in the end.

Jack woke up with
a start. He was cold and his clothes were soaking wet. People were close,
shouting, dashing, and carrying bundles through the dark. There was a brief
blissful moment of confusion, and then he remembered all the horror of the
night. The guard! What had become of the guard who had jumped? Jack looked
around. He was lying in exactly the same place as before and the guard was at
his side. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? It was impossible to say.
Yet the gatehouse was now reduced to charred and smoking rubble, and the rest
of the garrison seemed to have met a similar fate. Flames still flickered here
and there, sparring with timbers and outbuildings, but they lacked the fierce
frenzy of before.

He knew he had to
get up. It wouldn't be long before the people who were busy hurrying to and fro
decided that the two men lying at the side of the gate needed moving. He moved his
arms close to his body in preparation to push himself up. His muscles screamed
with pure pain. A hard ball of sickness welled up in his throat, and bringing
it up nearly choked him. Retching hard, he spat out a dry lump of something
pink-colored. Jack quickly covered it with dirt. He didn't want to know what it
was.

Trying to stand up
again, he shifted his weight to his arms. This time he was determined to ignore
the pain. Everything was going well until it was his legs' turn to play their
part; they shook violently for a moment and then buckled, sending him crashing
back down to the ground. He landed badly. His shoulder hit first, sending a
sharp spasm straight to the arrow wound on his chest. "Damn!" he
cursed, frustrated by his weakness. He took a deep breath and began again.
Humming a tune, he struggled to his feet. He swayed like before, but countered
his legs' desire to crumble, by refusing to let them bend at the knee. After a
few seconds of standing soldier-straight, his blood started flowing downward,
and gradually Jack began to feel a little stronger.

Someone approached
him. "You all right, friend? Do you need a hand?"

Jack looked at the
stranger blankly. There was no accusation on his face, only concern. The man
didn't know who he was. Jack knew better than to speak, so nodded instead,
making a small patting gesture at his throat, as if the fire had rendered it
raw.

"How about
the other fellow?"

Not once during
the time he had been trying to stand had Jack seen the guard move. He raised
his arms in a pulling gesture and the man came closer to give him a hand with
the body. "I don't believe I've met you before, my friend," he said,
as he grabbed the guard's shoulders. "Though with all that dirt on your
face, you could be my wife and I'd hardly know it." The man smiled
broadly, showing intricately crooked teeth and a fat red tongue. "Come on,
lad. Look lively, grab those feet. My name's Dilburt, by the way."

Jack bent down and
took hold of the guard's ankles. He almost couldn't believe what he felt: the
flesh was warm. Not cold, not cool, but warm. He was alive. Jack felt a wave of
simple joy ripple through his body. Buoying, invigorating, it chased away the
pain.

"What you so
happy about, lad?" asked the man, not unkindly. "Has all the soot
gone to your head? Or are you relieved that this guy's feet don't smell as bad
as you thought?"

Not waiting for an
answer, Dilburt counted: "One, two, three," and together they hoisted
the guard into the air. "Through here, lad," he said, tilting his
head toward the gate. "A camp's been set up for the sick."

Bearing the
guard's body was a duty to Jack. His muscles ached, his head spun, and although
the stranger took the greater part of the weight, the strain on his shoulder
caused an inferno of pain.

Two minutes later
they came upon a makeshift camp. Campfires and tents had been hastily built,
and pallets and bedrolls lined the ground. People had collected in large
groups, and if anything the mood was festive; cups topped with froth caught the
firelight and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Somewhere, a woman
with a fine voice was singing a song that was anything but sad, and all around
people were chattering in high, excited voices about what had happened that
night.