Knights Magi (Book 4) (72 page)

He really hoped this would work.  He didn’t think their mounts could handle much more of this pace before one of them faltered.  He said as much to Alwer and Belsi, as he watched Tyndal pull his reins and wheel his courser around, his hands instantly moving to draw forth a spell.

As he passed by he could feel the spell his comrade had built release – something sharp seemed to cut the air.  A blast of sound exploded at his back, making his ears ring and his head hurt.  He could only imagine what it did to th
e sensitive ears of the hounds.

Oh, well cast!
he sent to Tyndal, without thinking about it. 

Thanks!
Tyndal said, a note of surprise in his voice. 
I figured that dogs don’t like squeaky wagons and other high-pitched noises.  They probably wouldn’t like a soundstrike spell.

How did they react?

It bought us another hundred feet,
Tyndal said,
but those bastards are still back there.  I did my bit – your turn!

Rondal sighed and spurred his horse on with determination – determination not to look bad in front of Tyndal.  As his horse out-paced the others, he began thinking furiously about what he could do that would be effective against a pack of dogs.  Sound, of course, as Tyndal had pointed out . . . but what other weaknesses did canines have?

He had found a spot in the road at the top of a rise he felt would make a good stand, and he pulled his horse to a halt.  The beast was grateful for the rest, but it wasn’t unaware of the baying hounds that pursued, and it was reluctant to turn and face the threat.

Rondal’s mind raced through a variety of esoteric attacks, discarding one after the other until he came to one that seemed appropriate.  Rondal began calling power and weaving the foundations of the spell the moment he decided, creating a swirling vortex of concentrated magical energy between his hands as his comrades thundered toward him.

The goblins were almost fifty paces behind their prey at this point, thanks to Tyndal’s spell.  If Rondal could peel off another fifty with this attack, perhaps they could slip down some side track and elude them.  The ball of power grew, and when it reached a reasonable size Rondal began shifting the mode of energy expressed within into something very specific.  Ordinarily this was a runic sigil, but the principal was easy enough to transfer to an area effect spell. 

As Alwer, bringing up the rear, galloped by him Rondal stood in the stirrups and waited until the baying hounds and their wicked riders were only a few dozen feet away before he cast the spell.  Suddenly, all five hounds skidded to a stop.  Others were coming up behind, but the five closest were suddenly staring intently at Rondal and the sphere of power in his hand.

That was how the spell began.  The ball was designed to attract and keep someone’s attention.  Sometimes used as a defensive sigil to slow down infiltrators, in this iteration the spell instead compelled the animals who saw it to watch the thing as if were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Rondal had often seen a dog drop everything to stare at an object in a man’s hand.  He was about to play the world’s most dangerous game of fetch.  To ensure he the spell was fully effective, he shifted the ball to his left hand, and then to his right.  Five beady pairs of eyes followed it with intent interest.

“Where’s the ball?” Rondal asked, gamely, while the goblin riders screamed and tugged on the fur of their mounts ineffectively.  “Where’s the ball, fellas?”  He threw it back and forth, and the five hounds all began wagging their tails like puppies.  He shifted it from his right hand back to his left, and when it returned he hurled the sphere far to the left, down a gentle embankment and over a small drainage ditch.

The five hounds took off after the phantom ball like it was an errant squirrel.  It continued to captivate their attention in preference to all else, compelling them to chase after the phantom and completely ignore the commands of their riders.  Even as he grinned at their outraged howls the next batch of pursuers was
closing.  Rondal turn and spurred his horse on.

Five of them will be chasing their tails for a while,
he sent to Tyndal. 
How is our progress?

The next crossroad is ahead,
he answered. 
The left fork leads back to Farune Hall.  I’m going to put a confounding spell to foil their tracking, and we can slink back to safety – Ron!
screamed Tyndal in his mind a moment later, just when he considered slowing his horse again. 
Shit! We’re under attack!  A damned patrol!  Seven or eight of them!

Rondal screamed and spurred his horse faster and faster.  Every foot of distance was vital, and seemed to take forever to cross.  A patrol appearing like that was unlucky, at best.  At worst it demonstrated the gurvani’s improving ability to coordinate.  An infantry patrol appearing to shore up a cavalry chase suggested the latter.  He could hear the yelps and barks of their comrades to both left and right of the road.  If they didn’t deal with the infantry patrol, they would be caught between them.  Every second that passed could mean their deaths.

When he arrived at the crossroads a moment later, Tyndal was slashing from horseback, Belsi was desperately trying to reload her crossbow, and Alwar was on foot, his horse down and screaming in pain.  The animal had been dropped by one of those vicious bolos the goblins had been employing against human cavalry.  This one was made of iron chain, nastily barbed, and had taken the beast’s hind legs down hard.

Alwer had his long dagger in one hand and an axe in the other, and was giving good account of himself.  Two bodies already lay at his feet, and he was dueling two more warriors.  Ringing the crossroads were five or six other gurvani tossing spears and shooting arrows while a like number tried to attack the humans hand-to-hand.

Rondal took the head of one of Alwer’s attackers with his sword as he passed, and then for good measure he plowed into the knot that Tyndal was fighting with his horse, his blade slashing with precision.  As they were bowled over both mounts began kicking and stomping on the aggressive little creatures.  Horses, unlike dogs, were not particularly fond of gurvani.

Rondal heard a bowstring snap and saw Alwer’s other attacker drop to
Belsi’s quarrel, and he shot her a grateful glance.  Unfortunately, when he turned to face the next foe another bowstring snapped.  When  he turned back a moment later, a black-fletched arrow was protruding from one eye socket and a blank expression appeared in the other.  Wordlessly the big peasant collapsed to the ground, dead on the spot.  Somewhere to his left a goblin cheered at his good aim.

That angered Tyndal.  Before Rondal could react the younger apprentice howled in anger and began waving his hands.  A moment later a wild devastating blast of flame erupted among the scattered goblin archers, and most fell down screaming, their black fur afire.

“Damn them!” Tyndal screamed.  “Alwer!”

“He’s dead!” Rondal called back, sadly, as he examined the body from horseback.  The shaft was just too deep.  That point had to be far behind the man’s eyeball and deep into his brain.  Even if he was alive, he was in shock, and likely would not be for long.  Nor would Rondal wish the kind of life he’d have left on an enemy.  When the sight and smell of his bowels and bladder relaxing came, Rondal knew it was too late for the brave man.  Alwer was dead.

Tyndal was angrily slaying the last of the goblins, impaling one through the chest with a captured javelin, when Rondal looked back up at the sound of their cavalry’s horns.  “They’re still behind us!  What happened?”

“Their infantry got an ambush set up behind us,” Tyndal said, angrily.  “I didn’t see it.  Not until it was too late.  They had those damn bolos!  Alwer’s horse was the only one they got, but . . .”

“Understood.  Are you hurt, Arsella?” he asked, automatically, forgetting the girl’s actual name in the moment.

“N-no!” she answered, tearfully, staring down at Alwer’s still-quivering body. 

“Then let’s head for Farune Hall and hope they don’t figure it out.”

“Hold,” Tyndal said, wrinkling his nose.  He carefully raised the point of his captured blade and quickly ended the wounded horse’s suffering.  “Now we can go,” he said, heavily, taking one last look at Alwer’s body. 

Belsi nodded, ashen-faced, and started to turn her horse when she stopped.  “Wait! They’re just . . . just dogs, right?”

Rondal shrugged.  “Yes, but I wouldn’t want to take one of those puppie home to the kids.”

“I have an idea,” she said, digging around in her saddlebag.  It was the same one she’d packed from Farune just a few days before.  “Demon pepper powder,” she explained, carefully unwrapping the small bag.  “It’s as expensive as jewels, but every regal manor kitchen in Gilmora has some. That’s why I took it,” she confessed.  “It’s very, very powerful.  Get some in your eye, and you’re blind.”  She scattered the dust all around her feet.  “Any dog who sticks his nose in that won’t be smelling anything else for a while.”

The pungent, spicy aroma was potent enough so that Rondal’s eyes were already watering.  “That was clever,” he acknowledged with a bow of his head, nostrils flaring as he tried to avoid a sneeze.  “Now let’s get the hells out of here!”

The last leg to Farune Hall was frantic, as the three humans tried to outdistance their pursuers.  While they continued to hear baying hounds and tinny horns in the distance, scrying and scouting kept them from encountering any more searchers.  They slipped through Farune Hall’s warded doors just as dusk fell,  stabling the horses as quietly as they could in the deserted manor.  They deprived themselves of light until they were secured inside of the refuge tower, behind three sets of locked doors and fresh wards

“We’ll stay here tonight,” Rondal ordered, when the last bolt was thrown.  “We can scry the route to Maramor tomorrow.”

Tyndal nodded and went upstairs.  Belsi, her eyes streaming with tears, went to the little garderobe on the first floor, where she began sobbing.  Rondal stripped off his sweat-soaked, blood-splattered armor and left it in a heap by the thick wooden door in case of need, then ascended the staircase as much to get away from the sound of the miserable girl’s crying as to seek a basin in which to wash away the filth of a filthy day.

Tyndal was on the second floor, helping himself to a pint of grog from the tower’s stores before tending to his wounds or the dirt on his face.  Rondal was about to pass by and leave his fellow to his own thoughts when Tyndal looked up . . . and set a second glass down beside the first. 

Rondal was reluctant, at first.  The adrenaline that coursed through his blood had left him exhausted, now that they were safe, and while the refuge at Farune was well-warded and secure, he still didn’t feel as if he could relax.

But then he saw the glint in Tyndal’s eyes, and he realized that his fellow knight needed company, not solitude, to fight away the memory of the day.  He couldn’t turn away from a comrade in need like that, not even Tyndal.  Only one drink, he promised himself . . . but he could not deny that he looked forward to the liquor washing away the taste of blood, dust and bile from his mouth.

Wordlessly, Tyndal poured the clear liquid into the two small earthenware cups. Without libation or salute, both lads drained them.  Only when the drink burned a trail of warmth down his gullet did he feel able to break the silence.

“Good work, today,” he said, sincerely, if hoarsely.  “The siege worm, especially, but . . . all of it.  The attack.  The retreat.  The spellcraft.  The swordplay . . . you proved yourself a worthy mage knight today,” he admitted, grudgingly.  “Sire Cei and Master Min could not have done better.”

Tyndal looked surprised but troubled by the praise.  “Me?  You carried off that evacuation like you were Luin leading the sacred herds!”  He paused a moment and winced at the memory.  “Too bad about Alwer, though,” he said, quietly.

“We were so close,” agreed Rondal sadly.  Tyndal filled their glasses again and Rondal found it at his lips before he remembered his resolution to stick with one.  “To Alwer,” he said, a moment before he drained his glass.  “May he find his way to his ancestors in peace.”

Tyndal nodded in agreement and they drank.  Two drinks on an empty stomach, no matter how gratifying, made Rondal’s head spin a bit, particularly after the exertions of the day.  “I’m going to go upstairs and clean up.  You want to start supper?  I don’t think . . . I don’t think Belsi is going to be up for it.”

“I saw a smoked pork shoulder in the larder when I was rooting around for this,” Tyndal nodded.  “I’ll hack some off.  I don’t think we should chance a fire, though,” he added.  “Wood smoke would be too difficult to disguise.”

“Cook it by magic, then,” Rondal agreed, dully.  “I don’t care if we have to gnaw it off the bone.  I . . . I need to wash my face,” he said, lamely, and headed upstairs. 

A glance outside an arrow slit on the landing showed him that it had begun to rain.  That was good – the rain would obscure their track further by washing away their scent.  It would also discourage too many goblin patrols.  The furry buggers didn’t particularly like the rain.  Besides, he reasoned, they would have their hands full with the new bands of escaped slaves and the rampant siege worm roaming the countryside.  Surely they would abandon their search, he reasoned.

On the third floor, he found an ewer, basin and a slip of soap, so he indulged in sponging himself clean.  But if there were tears in the water he discarded through the arrow-slit, not even Rondal could tell.  He was drained, exhausted and spent.  As much as they’d gained in the day for the mission as a whole, losing Alwer had made the whole thing seem like a defeat.