Deborah Hale (30 page)

Men like Vang did not survive as long as he had if they showed fear. But Rath had lived this kind of life long enough that he could detect the most subtle signs. Vang was afraid, and a frightened beast could be dangerous when cornered.

The bandit chief bellowed. When a man came running, he ordered, “Send out three of our fastest riders. One to the north, one northeast and one northwest.”

“With messages, Chief?”

Vang shook his head. “To scout. For armies on the march. As soon as they spot anything, they are to ride back at once with news.”

The messenger headed off to carry out his chief’s order.

“Haste!” Vang barked after him.

The man nearly tripped in his hurry to get out of sight.

“Now…” Vang turned his attention back to Rath. “If it is as you say, why should I throw in my lot with this Waiting King? I have done well enough under the Han.”

“Until now,”
said Rath. “But your world is about to change one way or the other and you must decide how best to weather it. We both know the life of an outlaw is for young men. Your hold on power is only as strong as your ability to fight off the next challenge from some tough, ambitious young buck.”

“I have plenty of good years in me.” Vang flexed his muscles. “And woe to the fool who thinks he can take me down!”

“Woe to
you
if the Han put down this rebellion,” said Rath. “For they will not rest until every ember of resistance has been crushed under their iron-toed boots. And with the new troops that have been sent to aid them, they will have the power to do it. Do you fancy ending your life in the bowels of the Blood Moon Mountains?”

Vang gnawed on Rath’s words and appeared to find them
tough chewing. “Would I be any better off under this Waiting King? Will he not want to see his kingdom law-abiding and orderly? Would his prison be so much better than their mines?”

Rath glanced around at the tumbled-down castle. “His prison might well be better than this. And
anything
would be better than the mines. And who is to say you would be bound for prison? Umbria is a vast land. The Waiting King will need strong, shrewd men to help him rule it all.”

“What daft talk are you spewing, Wolf?” Vang gave a hoot of scornful laughter. “You reckon the Waiting King is going to make me the lord of Norest?”

“Who better? Some
zikary
who has been licking up to the Han all these years, or a strong leader who has resisted Hanish oppression…in his own way?”

That notion struck Vang dumb for a moment. Rath used the time to hammer home another point. “Especially if that man came to the king’s aid just when he needed it most? Think on it, Vang—in times of peace and order, a shrewd man can cling to power and a comfortable life on his wits alone. Even when the strength of his body fails.”

The faraway gleam in Vang’s one good eye told Rath he was tempted. But would that temptation prove potent enough to win his help? And would that help be enough to hold off the Han until Maura located the Staff of Velorken?

She must find the staff and she must find it quickly.

Maura made her way through the ruins of Aldwood Castle, trying to avoid drawing attention to her invisible passing. Meanwhile, she sifted through two sets of faint memories in an effort to find her way.

One was her recollections of Aldwood from her brief captivity in the spring. The other was the old memories passed down to her through a long line of Abrielle’s descendants, of a time when this castle had been new and whole. If she could
piece those memories together with what she now saw before her, she might be able to locate the long-hidden staff in time.

So far, she had not even managed to find her way underground. That burrow of passages, cells and storerooms where she’d once been held prisoner was where she believed the staff must lie hidden. If only she could reach one of the upper parts of the castle she remembered clearly, then she might find her way from there to the lower levels.

Ahead of her, three men lounged in a narrow doorway talking together in hushed tones. It sounded as though they were speculating about Rath’s sudden arrival and what would come of it. Beyond them, Maura thought she spied a familiar courtyard. She stood for a moment, waiting for the men to disperse, but they did not. Instead, a fourth man arrived with word that Vang had ordered scouts sent out. This prompted still more talk.

Maura tried another way, but it led nowhere that she remembered and she feared getting lost in the maze of twisting passages and small chambers. So she turned around and headed back. The trio of outlaws had not budged in the meantime and did not look likely to any time soon. Maura could not afford to linger, for the invisibility spell might wear off at any moment.

Pitching her voice as deep as possible, she growled, “Have you lot nothing better to do than hang about gossiping?”

The outlaws all jumped and fled in different directions so quickly, the barred doorway seemed to empty by magic. Before any of them had a chance to turn and question where the voice had come from, Maura darted through it and found herself in the courtyard where Rath had fought the outlaw Turgen. From there, she was able to get her bearings and soon found her way underground to the cell where she’d been kept prisoner.

Today that small chamber stood empty, as did all the others, its door hanging slightly open. Maura paused for a moment, her eyes closed, trying to summon the faint, shadowy image of Abrielle bearing the Staff of Velorken through the twisting labyrinth of dim passageways.

The staff was there, though. She sensed its power in the same strange manner she’d often sensed the presence of mortcraft. Except the feelings it inspired were totally different. Mortcraft oppressed her spirit with its mixture of fear, doubt and despair. The nearness of the staff buoyed her with strength, courage and hope.

She had first felt it when she’d been Vang’s prisoner, though she’d never guessed the source of the calm fortitude that had welled up within her then. Perhaps if she let it, the power of the staff would guide her now. She emptied her mind of all the fears that had swirled within it. Fears of what might happen if she did not find the staff in time. Different, but no less alarming, fears of what might happen when she did find it.

Then she eased her desperate grip upon the shrouded memory Delyon’s spell had stirred in her only to discover it became clearer. Perhaps she did not need to search so hard, only stop struggling and let the enchantment of the staff draw her to it.

Giver, lead my steps.
Maura repeated the words to herself over and over in a silent litany with the soothing rhythm of flowing water.

Then she began to flow with it—her feet moving without conscious effort. Down the passageway, through one open chamber, then another, down a long flight of stairs to a deeper level. In time she left behind the torchlit passages, slipping into shadows and finally into deep darkness. A notion flickered in her mind that perhaps she should strike a spark of greenfire to light her way, but the pull of the staff seemed to gain greater power over her when her other senses did not get in the way.

At last she felt herself in a larger chamber. A cool breath of air flickered from somewhere, whispering over her cheek. She halted—somehow certain her long search had come to an end. With trembling hands, she fumbled in her sash for a twig. Then she held it up, chanted the greenfire spell.

The familiar soft, verdent glow flared up, lighting a strange chamber, that also seemed oddly familiar. An array of sturdy
pillars stood sentinel throughout the underground hall. Each looked like the trunk of a tree, complete with rough bark and roots sunk deep into the floor. Their stout upper branches fanned out to form a lattice of beams that supported the vast, high ceiling.

The place reminded Maura of the structure atop a Margylese hill where the Oracle liked to meditate—only on a much grander scale. By the dim greenfire light, she began to make her way through the room.

Her foot caught on something. She stumbled and almost fell.

Glancing down, she discovered the chamber floor was littered with great axes and other cutting tools, their blades gouged, dented and in some cases shattered. Clearly, many attempts had been made to cleave these underground tree pillars. Yet none of the trunks showed so much as a chip of its bark.

A paralysing chill of doubt slithered through Maura’s belly. She had found the chamber, but where was the staff?

Hearing a sudden noise behind her, she quenched her greenfire and slipped behind one of the pillars.

Had their mission to Aldwood all been for nothing? Rath wondered as his talks with Vang dragged on and the bandit chief showed no sign of lending his support to the rebel alliance.

“Who are ye, Wolf, to offer me terms on behalf of this would-be king?” Vang fixed him with a one-eyed squint.

“I do not expect you to trust me.” Rath could feel the edges of his temper fraying dangerously. “Only think on what I say and use your head. You will see there is only one choice ahead that will not lead you to disaster.”

“That may be, or it may not,” growled Vang. “I have yet to hear if ye spoke true about what is going on out there.”

He waved one beefy hand toward the north in a dismissive gesture, as if nothing of any importance to him ever went on beyond the fringe of his forest.

At that moment, a lanky lad dashed in, gasping for breath
and clearly alarmed. “Armies, Chief—three at least—all heading straight for us! The two coming behind may catch the other, I reckon, before they reach here.”

Rath cursed himself. He should never have left them to come on this fool’s errand. What had made him think he could reason with Vang?

“You see?” he cried. “It is as I told you. War has come to your doorstep. Do not make the mistake of believing it will pass you by. Give me your answer, now! Will you take a risk for a better future or will you cling to what you have until it drags you down?”

Vang scowled over his choices, but when he opened his mouth to answer, Rath caught a glimmer of something that kindled his hopes.

“Chief!” A call from the back of the great hall interrupted Vang and made Rath spin around.

One of the outlaws strode toward them hauling Maura along, her wrists bound behind her. “I caught this one sneaking about down in the Deep Hall.”

“You again!” Vang sprang up, glaring at Maura. Then he rounded on Rath. “What treachery is this, Wolf?”

Whatever hopeful sign Rath thought he’d sensed in Vang earlier had disappeared.

N
ewlyn Swinley sensed the noose of panic tightening around the throats of the Umbrian rebels. As he struggled up the steep, broken ground of the heath, he had to take care not to stumble over the gear that some of the men ahead of him had thrown aside in a desperate effort to make more haste.

Most of the men had little breath to spare for talk. Yet somehow word had spread that they were being pursued by not one but
two
Hanish armies, both of which were quickly gaining ground on them.

Another word on every rebel soldier’s tongue or mind was
Aldwood.
If they could reach the ancient forest before they were overtaken, they might stand a chance against the Han. The Vestans would be able to fire their lethal arrows from behind cover against any Hanish charge. And if the battle went against them, the Umbrians could always flee deeper into the woodland where the Han would be loath to pursue them.

In the back of his mind, Newlyn fancied he could hear Sorsha begging him to do just that at the first sign of trouble.
But he was determined to get a few good licks in before taking to his heels. And that he would do only when all hope failed.

As he labored up the slope, he saw a man sitting stiff-backed on a dappled horse. An air of command hung about the officer, so intense it almost made Newlyn shrink back. He told himself not to be daft—this man was on
their
side.

Pausing at the top of the rise to catch his breath, Newlyn made the mistake of glancing behind him. What he saw made his nostrils flare and his heart hammer. The gap between the rebel stragglers and the vanguard of the Hanish force was closing fast. The vast size of that force sent a sickening chill through Newlyn and stirred dark memories of his time in the mines.

The man on the horse lowered the tube from his eye and stuffed it into a rounded scabbard.

“We must take the outlaw fortress,” he cried. “And we must take it swiftly!” Wheeling his mount, he charged down the slope toward the forest, roaring orders and urging the front ranks of rebels to attack.

Newlyn had caught his breath by now. Turning his back on the pursuing Han, he ran down the broad slope toward the forest and its promise of refuge. If he had to fight the outlaws of Aldwood to get in, he would. He clutched a long, stout crook that had served him well as a walking stick on the march. Now he would wield it as a fighting staff. If he lost that, he had a hatchet looped in his belt and a long knife sheathed on the other side.

He would rather save them for the Han, but he might not have that choice. Any fool could see Aldwood was the rebels’ only hope to avoid a slaughter. The men around him knew it, too, for they charged toward the ancient towering timbers with weapons drawn and war cries rolling from their throats.

The first hint of trouble struck Newlyn when one of the mounted rebel captains let out a scream of pain that pierced the rumbling thunder of running feet and pounding hooves. He
glanced in the direction of the cry, expecting to see one or more arrow shafts bristling from the fellow’s body.

The rider twitched and thrashed in his saddle, howling in agony until his terrified mount rose on its hindquarters and threw him to the ground. Only then did the screaming stop…for a moment. Then it rose from a different direction. From two different directions. What was going on?

The men around him must have wondered the same thing, for the pace of their advance on Aldwood slowed and their heads twisted this way and that, searching for the source of the assault against them.

“Over there!” a fellow running ahead of Newlyn cried, pointing westward as he veered to the east.

On instinct, Newlyn followed the other man, casting a glance westward. What he saw made his throat tighten and his bowels feel suddenly hollow. A troop of mounted Han must have separated from the main force and swung wide to the south. Now they galloped between the rebels and the shelter of trees.

At that moment a gust of wind blew aside a swath of cloud that had covered the sun. A sharp beam of light shot down to glare off the Hanish armor and glitter from the lethal gems atop the wands of several death-mages.

The Hanish riders galloped into the path of the oncoming rebels, pausing only to trade blows with a few mounted Vestans who rode out to engage them. But the rebel riders were far too few. Most had been assigned to the rear—carrying stragglers and harrying the front ranks of the Han.

Faced with a line of mounted Hanish soldiers and death-mages between them and the forest, the rebel advance stalled. It had been one thing to charge an outlaw stronghold, against a force that might be scattered, ill-equipped and taken by surprise. The Han were concentrated and well armed, with surprise firmly on their side. Not to mention the terrible power of the death-mages, which the rebels had not tasted until now.

A loud wail from nearby startled Newlyn and almost made him drop his crook. A tall man—from Southmark by the look of his headgear—jerked and quivered like one of the wooden dance-dolls Newlyn had carved for his sons. Blood seeped from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth as he screamed. Those nearest the suffering man moved away from him, in case the death-mage’s wand should find a target in them.

Not knowing what else to do, Newlyn thrust out his crook and caught the man by one leg, pulling it out from under him so he fell. As soon as he went down, the screaming stopped…and another rebel’s began.

Newlyn grabbed the Southmarker, who was still bleeding but alive, and propped him against an outcrop of rock where he was less likely to be trampled. Glancing up the ridge, Newlyn saw more and more rebels pouring over it, only to join a mass of seething, howling chaos on this side.

Then the horseman on the ridge cried again, “To Aldwood! Charge!”

Foolhardy as it seemed, when Newlyn heard the order, he knew it was their only hope. If they milled about trying to escape the bite of Hanish blade, arrow or wand, the enemy could pick them off a few at a time, at will. If they pressed the attack, he might not live to reach Aldwood, but those coming after him might.

This was what he’d told Sorsha he needed to do—not cower in the forest, but face the Han on a field of battle and wrest back what they had stripped from him on the day they’d branded him, given him a sniff of slag and thrust him into the mines.

“Charge!” Newlyn and a number of others took up the cry and sprang forward.

An arrow whistled past his ear and he heard a cry of pain behind him. But he did not look back. Instead, he dropped to a crouch and ran in a jagged shifting path that he hoped would make him harder to hit.

The sudden rebel surge seemed to catch the Han off
guard. When Newlyn broke through their line, he found himself between several men fending off sword blows from Hanish riders. One cried out and fell back, bleeding. Another went down under the flailing hooves of a horse when it reared.

While the Hanish soldier clung to the reins with one hand and lashed out with his sword, Newlyn caught him around the neck with his crook, pulling him half out of the saddle. Struggling to keep his seat, the Han dropped his blade. A young rebel picked it up and brandished it. Two others leaped up and hauled the Han down by his thick, golden white plume of hair.

Newlyn caught the Han’s horse by the reins and vaulted into the saddle. He patted the creature’s neck to calm it. “If we get out of this alive, I promise I’ll ride you home and hitch you to a nice peaceful plow.”

Perhaps it was the tone of his voice, or the reassurance of his touch. Or perhaps in some queer fashion the animal understood what he meant, for it grew less agitated and responded to his tug on the reins. Wheeling the beast, he rode it out of the fray. There he paused for a moment to get his bearings and see how he might make his best fight. Then, holding his crook like a short lance, he plunged back into battle again, knocking aside Hanish blades and unseating more riders.

His efforts seemed to hearten the other rebels. More and more threw themselves at the Hanish riders, who began to give ground, slowly retreating toward the edge of the forest. In some places, a trickle of rebels broke through their thinning ranks and ran into the shelter of trees.

“We might make it yet,” Newlyn muttered, slamming his crook down on the blade hand of a Hanish rider.

Then a shattering spasm of pain ripped through him, worse than any he could remember. A cry broke from his throat. Like the pain, it seemed to go on and on. In his heart, Newlyn begged the horse to end his torment by tossing him and breaking his neck. It would not matter. All was lost. Out of Aldwood
he could see a swarm of heavily armed outlaws emerging to bar the rebels’ way.

Then, as quickly as it had struck, the pain released him from its crushing jaws. Newlyn had just enough strength to slump forward over the horse’s neck, dodging the swing of a blade meant to take off his head. An instant before, he would have welcomed the blow. Now he clung to life.

For the outlaws of Aldwood had not barred the rebels way, after all. Instead, they had launched an attack upon the Hanish riders from behind. Lifted on a warm wave of hope, Newlyn pulled himself tall in the saddle again and gave a cheer.

“Onward!” he cried. “To Aldwood!”

Then another blade slashed out at him. This time, he was not able to dodge it.

“Onward to Aldwood!” From the edge of the forest Maura heard that hopeful call ring out above the din of battle.

Silently she blessed Rath or the Giver or whatever had overcome the bandit chief’s suspicions and made him throw his men into the fray. When she’d been discovered and hauled into Vang’s terrifying presence, she had pictured her worthy destiny crushed in his meaty fist.

While he had mulled over his decision, his rough features clenched in a dark scowl, hope had almost deserted her. Hearing his bellowed order for his outlaws to attack the Han, she had wondered if her ears were playing tricks on her.

“Come, witch.” Vang hauled Maura along as he strode from the great hall. “We may need your powers in this fight.”

Her gaze met Rath’s as Vang marched them to the castle armory. She sensed what he wanted to know, but how could she convey such a complicated answer without words?

“Grab yourself a blade or two, Wolf.” Vang gestured toward walls hung with a bristling array of weapons. He pulled down a massive sword that looked capable of slicing a man clean in two with a single stroke.

“Would you have a staff, by any chance?” Rath asked, directing a swift glance toward Maura before turning his attention to Vang’s cache of weapons. “I’ve found they can come in handy during a fight.”

Maura knew the question was meant for her rather than the bandit chief. Rath had learned something useful from Idrygon.

“A staff?” Vang gave a dismissive shrug. “Might be. Have a poke around.”

“I will look while you choose a blade,” said Maura. “It may be that I will spot one but find it out of my reach.”

Would he understand what she meant—near enough at least?

“In that case,” said Rath, “you may need some help to get at it.” Lifting down a sturdy-looking blade, he tested the grip and balance of the weapon Maura pretended to search for a staff, hoping Rath had some idea what she’d meant. As for his answer, did he mean they must find Delyon? With all his study of ancient writings, the young scholar might know how to retrieve the precious talisman that lay just beyond their grasp.

While Rath and Vang threw themselves into battle, Maura crouched behind the thick trunk of a long-needle pine, watching for a chance to use her skills to aid the rebels.

Overhead, thick banks of cloud raced across the sky. Behind them, the sun was sinking toward the Blood Moon Mountains. If only Rath’s men could win their way through to the forest and hold off a Hanish attack until sunset, they might gain a reprieve long enough for her to find the staff.

From out of the battle, an Umbrian man came running straight toward Maura. He appeared to have lost whatever weapon he’d had. By the way he cradled one arm against his body she could tell he must be wounded. Before he could reach the shelter of the trees, a Hanish rider came galloping after him, blade raised to finish him off.

Maura had a wisp of spidersilk in her hand, but that would do no good. The Han would overtake the wounded man long
before she could dart out and apply the spell. Almost before she realized what she was doing, she groped on the ground for a rock. Not too large a one, or she would never be able to throw it far enough. Not too small, or it would do no good, even if it hit the rider. Her hand closed over one that felt the right size for her purpose.

As she pulled back her arm to fling it, she whispered a plea in
twaran
that she had not even realized she knew. “Giver, guide my aim and strengthen my arm. I fight, not to take life, but to defend it.”

A jolt of power surged through her. She hurled the stone with such intense force that she lost her balance and fell to her knees. When she picked herself up and checked to see if her effort had done any good, she saw that the Han had dropped his blade and his sword arm hung limp. His horse had swerved, now he brought it around and set off after his prey, determined to ride the man down before he reached safety.

Bursting out of the forest, Maura cried in Hanish, “Look out behind you!”

Unable to ignore the warning, perhaps because he’d heard it in his own tongue, the rider pulled his mount around to face whatever threat might be bearing down upon him. By the time he realized it had been a trick and turned back again, the injured rebel had staggered into the relative safety of the trees.

The Han yelled curses at Maura, then rode off. She paid him no mind, for something had caught her eye as she helped the wounded man to safety.

“Are you bleeding anywhere?” She lowered him to the ground between two large exposed roots.

Her sash bulged with the candleflax and laceweed she had harvested from her herb garden. How far away that peaceful spot seemed now, in time and distance!

The man shook his head, partly in answer to her question and partly in wonder. “Blood would have been pouring out of
me if your aim hadn’t been so good, mistress. I never saw a lass hurl a rock like that. I reckon I’ve broken a bone or two.”