Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga) (3 page)

Slowly, he closed his left eye, the blue one, and after a moment switched and closed the right. The old habit seldom worked, but sometimes…

Behind him, a mule grumbled, punctuating displeasure with an explosive snort. Shette made an equally explosive sound of dismay. "He did that on purpose! You
know
he likes to snort all over me! Laine, why do I have to—"

"Shut up?" he finished, rounding on her where she stood by Spike, the near-side mule, in front of their small four-wheeled wagon. She was the picture of irritated sibling, her loose trousers rolled up to the knee, her sandy hair tied off at the base of her neck, and her expression displaying graphic revulsion as she vigorously rubbed her shoulder against the mule's lower neck.

The mule did indeed wear a half-lidded expression of satisfaction. It had probably been as tired of Shette's whining as Laine. "If you're not quiet, we'll be here for the rest of the day while I sight this out. Do you want to explain that to Ansgare?"

Sometimes the five years between them seemed like a century.

Shette made a face and pushed the mule's head away from her; he swung it back with a sleepy innocence, perfectly aware of her still hesitant authority. His partner, Clang, was happy to follow Spike's lead in the matter.

Even now Spike flopped his jagged namesake of a mane back and forth to rid himself of a fly, and gained a sneaky foot in the doing of it. "Shette," Laine said, and his teeth ground together a little as he strode forward, caught the mule's lines under the animal's chin, and backed him the exact step he'd stolen, "you've
got
to watch him. If I can't trust you to keep him back, I'll swap you with Dajania— she doesn't let him pull anything. You can ride with Sevita."

"Laine, I don't want to ride in a whore wagon!" Shette said, truly horrified.

Her reaction was so satisfying that Laine regained his normal good humor at once, and merely smiled at her despite the threat of the spell tickling at his back.

"It's all your fault, anyway," she grumbled with embarrassment, perhaps remembering that the women in question had actually been quite kind to her on this trip. "There's nothing up there, and Spike knows it."

"Laine." A new voice, startling him from behind the wagon.
Ansgare.
Of course. Riding his big cat-footed pony. "Seems we've been here quite a while."

Laine gave Shette a quick warning look and eased along the wagon to meet Ansgare; there was no room for the little horse to come forward. On one side, granite jutted far above their heads, and on the other lay such a jumble of fallen rocks and tall grasses that riding it begged a broken leg.

It hadn't been easy, finding a decent route through the Lorakan mountain chain.

Laine put his back to the rear panel of the wagon and gave Ansgare a shrug as he rolled his long sleeves up around his biceps. Even at twenty, Laine's was a casual approach to life, reflected by the frequent humor in his eyes. "Whole trip is going slow this time, Ansgare— someone's been playing with these mountains. Loraka's turning apprentices loose to practice, I'll bet."

"It doesn't take this long to unscramble apprentice spells." Ansgare rubbed a hand over his short, grey-shot beard, glancing over his shoulder. Kalf's squat, solid wagon of fine Therand mercantiles blocked the view, but Laine knew Ansgare was mentally placing the caravan's strongarms— Machara and her two men, Dimas and Kaeral. Likely they were spread evenly among the wagons, as was their habit. When Ansgare turned back, it was with a shrug— as though, defenses set, he could afford to take Laine a little less seriously. "Loraka's never minded us here before. Take a drink, close your eyes a few minutes. See if it's still there."

"Have I ever been wrong?" Laine asked, more amused than offended.

"No, son, but Guides grant us, things change. It never was natural, you being able to see things with no training, and no call to magic."

"Natural, maybe not. But the Sight's always been there, and it's shown no signs of fading." Laine grinned at the man, knowing the merchant's thoughts well after their years together. "Patience, Ansgare. Your goods won't spoil. You're just restless from winter."

"That's a certain fact. And so's this— your old Spike mule decided to move ahead without you."

"What?" Laine spun around to see the wagon creeping away from him. "Damn," he said, slapping a hand to his utilitarian short sword. "Shette— !"

Her rising voice added a note of panic to its frustration. "Spike, whoa, you stupid mule!" A loud grunt of effort, no doubt from a correction Spike didn't even notice. "Spike, would you just— !"

Laine scrambled alongside the wagon, stumbling on the stones there, as Shette's words stopped in a gasp, then escalated. "Spike, get back, get
back
,
get
—" Spike's alarmed snort overrode her, and Laine was just close enough to glimpse his sister over Clang's back when she screamed.

The quaver of resolving magic before her was all too clear. The path suddenly tracked left, through what
had
looked like solid stone, and the ruts Spike had been following phased to sparsely grass-edged rocks. Clang's foolishly floppy ears went back and he reared, nearly concealing the coalescing boil of darkness that appeared only a few feet away from Shette.

Boil of darkness—

Laine slapped the beast's neck on his way by. "Stand, Clang! Stand, Spike!" He pulled out his sword, an unblooded blade with a sweeping basket hilt, and when he threw himself between Shette and the smoldering darkness, it seemed an insignificant weapon indeed.

"Laine," Shette gasped, staring at the unknown that towered over them and tugging at his arm. "Laine, come
on
."

He shook her off. From behind, Ansgare bellowed. "We're coming, Laine! Hold on!"

Machara
, he hoped— and hoped fervently— as the darkness solidified in front of them, choosing form and texture. A dark beast, a bristle-hided thing with ichor dripping from its short-muzzled mouth and reddish piggy eyes that seemed quite happy to see them. Shette snatched Laine's arm again, dragging him away. He shoved her back as hard as he could, never taking his eyes off the oddly assembled beast so very close.

Its bat-like face bobbed up and down on a short neck; Laine took the gesture for uncertainty, as Ansgare and the three fighters clattered over the rocks behind him. But its lips drew back, an absurd parody of a grin, and—

"
Duck
, Laine!" Ansgare roared, so close to him that Laine flinched away, and so was caught only by the edges of the spittle aimed at his face. Laine yelped, swatting at the fierce burn along his arm and nearly dropping his sword.

Shette screamed "Laine!" as someone else cried "Watch it!" and Machara's light, commanding alto overrode them to shout "Spread out!" The strongarms came on in a flurry of movement, facing off a hunch-shouldered beast that appeared more amused than threatened by them. Laine ended up on the periphery, his venom burns forgotten, bouncing on the balls of his feet and waiting for opportunity while the others baited the creature— but something was
wrong
with it all.

Very wrong.

Machara feinted at the thing when as it clearly sized up Dimas, Kaeral didn't even duck as it slapped him to the ground, and Ansgare seemed completely unaware when it turned on him, its face drawn up in the grimace of its spitting attack.

No time for words; Laine shoved his boss aside, bringing his sword across in a quick backhand sweep that cut deeply into the beast's neck. At that one instant, everyone focused on the creature where it was, and then just as quickly they were feinting at phantoms again.

They don't
see
it
! Startled, Laine closed an eye, leaving himself open to attack— and
Saw
. While the bulk of the thing's body was the same to both Sight and sight, the head whipped around in two different patterns— the truth, and the lie. And only Laine saw the truth.

But Shette's rock pinged solidly enough off its hide. "Be careful!" Laine shouted at her as she flung another rock, totally unaware when it swung its head to face her. Laine squelched his instinct to go after it.

If he let it think it was unobserved…let it commit itself to attacking his little sister... . He swallowed hard, pulled himself up short, and joined the others, battering the empty air while he watched the true beast out of the corner of his eye. Certain it was safe, the beast gathered venom with each bob of its head, drew back its lips—

Laine whirled and put his entire body behind the blow, his sword connecting with bone just behind the creature's skull. Shette jumped back, clearly surprised by the sudden flash of Laine's sword at nothing, at—

Some
thing.

The creature collapsed, its heavy skull thunking to the ground with Laine's sword imbedded in its neck and wrenched from his grasp.

Machara stared at the empty space she'd been so successfully engaging. "Well, I'll be damned."

For the moment, that seemed to be the general consensus. Then Shette ran to Laine and made fussing noises over his arm, which then of course started to hurt. Spike postured behind them, little half-rears of threat accompanied by the sharp tattoo of his front hooves against the ground.

"Never seen anything like that," Kaeral pronounced finally, still breathing heavily. Laine glared at the creature, hands on hips, panting. Something Kaeral, in all his years of experience, had never seen. Wonderful.

"The thing had us completely fooled." Dimas shook his head in disbelief.

"No," Ansgare said, crossing in front of Laine to jerk the short sword out of the thing's neck. He handed it to Laine, moving up close to look directly in his eyes. Looking, Laine knew, into eyes of two different colors. A black eye and a blue so dark you had to be this close to see the difference. "No," Ansgare repeated. "Not all of us."

~~~~~

~~~~~

Laine Dreamed.

~~~~~

He moved through the caverns from a viewpoint that seemed a little taller than normal; he was happy and excited— and scared. He'd taken Jenorah from a life of ease and comfort, and together they were entering more than a cavern that led from one country to another. It also led them into another life, a voluntary exile.

He held the lantern up a little higher, and felt the soft touch of Jenorah's hand on his arm.

"Together," she said.

Dannel stopped, then, and put the lantern on the ground, turning to face her. She was a sturdy young woman, the best of Clan Grannor. Her long black hair was tied back, and her equally black eyes glinted in the wavering light of the lantern, looking at him with such love he felt himself nearly overcome. He put his hands alongside her face and smoothed her hair back, all the impossible wisps that had come loose during their wild ride to this place through both borders and into the
Barrenlands. She tilted her head back and looked at him, and wry amusement gathered in her gaze until it overflowed her eyes and came out in a laugh— and not one of those fake little court laughs, either. An infectious laugh that caught him up in its wake and played with them until they were breathless and clinging to one another.

"We did it," Jenorah said through a contented sigh. "For all of their stupidity, we managed this. And if we can do this, what is there that we cannot do?"

He drew her close and rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Nothing," he whispered. "Nothing at all."

~~~~~

"Nothing," someone repeated, someone else altogether. He looked not at Jenorah, but at a man. Tall, dark-haired, intensely angry, and armed with plenty of blade. "Nothing should keep me from your side, and running errands for the Upper Levels least of all."

"Relax," he said, not feeling all that relaxed himself. He'd been about to discuss the day's plans with this man— this
friend
— but that would only make things worse, now. "Someone's playing games, pulling strings to prove they can. If we cut them off, we won't have a chance to follow the strings, will we, Ehren?
Ehren?"

~~~~~

"Ehren!" He cried the warning out of habit when the attack came, aching for the solid feel of his friend against his back, fierce and capable. The world filled with the sounds of fighting men— blades and shouts and death cries, the worst of those coming from his own throat as his body took cut after cut. Someone jerked his head back, put a blade against his throat—

~~~~~

~~~~~

Pain
. Laine was choked with it, his body stiffened and jerking with someone else's death. It burned in his belly, his arm, his throat.
Death, reaching for him—

"Laine!" Shette's annoyed voice, the not-so-gentle prod of her finger. "Wake up, Laine, you're doing it again!"

"Huh?" He jerked upright, nearly smacking his head on the bottom of the wagon, and let himself flop back to the ground again, dazed. Laine unclenched his fist, flattened it on top of his stomach and the phantom pain there. No blood. No.

A mule snorted on the other side of the wagon, a wet and unhappy sound. For a moment Laine stared at the darkness of the wagon slats overhead, his hand resting on his dry, whole torso, listening to the uneven patterns of gusty rain overhead.

Shette, her voice tinged with sisterly disgust, said, "You and your dreams. Between that and the rain, I don't know how we're supposed to get any sleep."

Laine's thoughts were far away, picking at the details of the death scene he'd just witnessed— sacred Hell,
been a part of
. Out loud, he merely said a mild, "At least we trenched uphill." If they'd skipped it as Shette had wanted to, they'd be on wet ground right now.

When she spoke again, her voice had changed, grown tentative. "What do you see, Laine, in those dreams of yours? Mum and Da thought you'd outgrown them."

"And you're to tell them no differently," he said, abruptly rolling over to face her in the darkness.