The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (26 page)

1

“We need a strategy,” Hobart said after they had made camp
near a small, frigid stream. “You saw those fires. That means there’s something
up here that is smart enough to make them. It won’t be human.”

“It could be,” Ortis suggested. “There are quite a few
people who have gone missing. They may have decided to live up here.”

“Why?” Giorge asked. “It can’t be easy to survive in these
mountains without trade.”

“This plateau has a lot of plants and animals,” Ortis said.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it could support a fairly large population.”

“Population of what, though?” Hobart countered. “We know of
several races who have fire, and I’m sure there are others we don’t know about.
It won’t be dwarves; they keep below ground. Elves? They’re in the forests of
the Western Kingdoms and far south of these mountains. I can’t see it being
them either; they’re too fond of trees.”

“No need to go through the list,” Giorge said. “We know
that, whoever they are, they aren’t going to be friendly. If they were, there
wouldn’t be so many people disappearing.”

“That may be,” Hobart said. “But what about the dwarves?
What would they tolerate in
their
part of The Tween? After all, they
think this whole mountain range is theirs, don’t they. If they catch us over
here, they’re not likely to let us go.”

“Dwarves tend to ignore the surface,” Ortis said. “Unless
there are large enough numbers, they won’t interfere.”

“Not quite true,” Hobart said. “There are some things they
hate enough to leave their holes to kill them.”

“Right,” Giorge agreed. “We can rule all those out. The
fires weren’t small; if they were, we wouldn’t have seen them.”

“Those were the ones by the river,” Hobart said. “As long as
we avoid them, we shouldn’t have to deal with large numbers. I’m more concerned
with smaller groups further from the river. If they see us, what are they going
to do? Will they engage us in combat, or will they tell the larger groups about
us? Either way, it will be a problem.”

“Perhaps we’ll see signs of them before we get too close,”
Angus said. “That will help.”

“There’s only one question we really need to answer right
now,” Giorge said. “Are we willing to fight and kill to reach our goal, or do
we flee?”

“We can’t answer that until we know what we’re facing,”
Hobart said. “We might be able to negotiate.”

“This is pointless,” Angus said. “You’re not strategizing;
you’re talking about potentialities. We need realities before we can
strategize. Until we actually know what we’re up against, all this talk is
meaningless.”

“Not meaningless, Angus,” Hobart corrected. “If we can
narrow down the possibilities, we might know whether or not an attack will come
during the day or at night, what kind of weapons they might have, how they
would respond to a group of our size—a lot of things. But you are right about
one thing; we can’t answer most of these questions until we know what they are.
But at least we can begin excluding some of the less likely possibilities, and
we’ve started doing that. It will help. We can rule out what the dwarves
despise, and that means the likelihood of a night attack also goes down
considerably. Most of their enemies are nocturnal. It doesn’t disappear
altogether, but it does drop. If we can narrow down the kind of weapons they
might have, we can prepare our defenses better. The tactics for defending ourselves
against a group of bowmen are considerably different from those against
swordsmen, for example, and if we can figure out what they are, we can plan
accordingly.”

“Isn’t the best strategy,” Angus said, “to avoid them
altogether?”

“Not always,” Hobart said. “They may be potential
allies—even out here—and we may need their help before our quest is over.”

“Fine,” Angus said. “You can keep strategizing. I’m going to
sleep. I’m exhausted. Don’t wake me unless you have to,” he added.

“Ortis,” Giorge said. “How do you feel about a little night
reconnaissance?”

“Don’t go very far,” Hobart suggested. “It would not be good
to infringe upon their territory until we’re ready for them.”

“If we see sign,” Ortis said, “I’ll let you know.”

“Dwarves despise….”

Their conversation gradually eased from his awareness as
Angus lay down and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for sleep to come, and
when it did, it wrapped gently around him like a fog-enshrouded, loving embrace
that left him utterly terrified….

2

It was already well past dawn by the time Angus sat down to
prime himself for the spells he might need, but something didn’t feel right.
When he brought the magic within him into focus, it seemed to be all wrong.
This wasn’t the vague sense of the magic within him not being lined up
properly; it was as if they were a completely unfamiliar, rudimentary network.
And yet, it was the same pattern of energy he had grown accustomed to since
waking up with amnesia.

“How long were you Voltari’s apprentice?” the Truthseer had asked.

“Ten years.”

Ten years.
But he only remembered one year, the last
one. He had learned a lot in that year, and if he had been with Voltari for ten
years, he should have learned even more. A lot more. What was keeping him from
that knowledge? Why could he remember things when the Truthseer interrogated
him that he couldn’t before? The only reason he knew them now was because she
had asked him about it. He still didn’t remember those ten years; he only
remembered one. But now, the familiar felt so utterly false….

He frowned as he flipped through the pages of Teffles’ book
until he reached the flying spell and propped the book open. It had already
proven itself to be useful, and he would never master flying without practice.
He might even be able to use it to find out what made the fires—if he wanted
to. What else might he need? What else
could
he prime?

The Firewhip spell would be useful in close combat, the
whip-like flames only stretched out about fifteen feet. It would complement the
Firecluster spell he had primed when he was with Billigan—but had he done the
priming correctly? Would it work properly? Would it do something different?
Would it kill him?

Hobart was right, knowing what they would be facing
did
make a difference, even to him. But they still didn’t know what it would be.
And what if they weren’t attacked while they were on the plateau? There may not
be anything until they got to the temple, and then he would need the kind of
spells that would have limited range and effect. And the Lamplight spell; he
would need it in the temple. He added that scroll to the Firewhip and looked at
the other scrolls. How many more
could
he prime? Were his limits
self-imposed? Or could he draw upon what he had forgotten even though he
couldn’t remember it? If he could only prime a few spells at a time after ten
years, he didn’t want to remember the other nine….

Most of his scrolls were variations on a theme. Geyser of
molten rock. Bubbling pool of molten rock. Molten rock shooting up from the
ground. Firewhip. Firecluster. Flame Bubble—Fire and lava—the perfect
preparation for working in Hellsbreath. At least Voltari had done that much.
What else had he done?

Maybe he should prime the Flame Bubble? It created a sphere
of flame around him that he could propel outward at will, but it would weaken
in intensity as it got further away from him. But it would put his friends at
risk if they were outside the bubble, and the horses….

He didn’t need to prime for the friction spell; it wasn’t
really even a spell. All he had to do was rub a strand of flame magic between
his finger and thumb to generate heat, and then touch something flammable. That
was what he had done with Giorge’s net. That and the spell from Teffles’ book.
He’d have to name it something appropriate. It was like a puff of air, so why
not Puffer? But that wasn’t all it could do; simple spells like that always had
a multiplicity of uses. He could use it to deflect an arrow, fan flames, and a
myriad of other uses. But the more complex a spell became, the more its
usefulness dwindled.

Two scrolls and two spells from Teffles book. Firecluster.
Lavageyser. Arclight—that had been the spell Voltari had used on him when he
touched him without being given permission to do so. A respectable number for
an apprentice with but a year of study, but woefully inadequate for one with
ten years of rigorous instruction. How many more could he prime?

Angus shook his head to clear it. He needed to get started.
They were waiting for him. What should he do? Maybe one of the scrolls Voltari
had given him that he wasn’t sure about? One that he didn’t understand? Maybe
he had cast them before? If he had, it should be easier to prime than he might
think, and the priming, itself, might help him to understand the spell. Or it
could destroy him. Magic was always dangerous….

Angus decided to try the most complex spell Voltari had
given him. If he could cast it, then he was confident he would be able to cast
the others. He could prime it easily enough—the directions were clear—but he
didn’t know if he could weave the complex knots involved in the spell. Nor did
he know what it would do. He would have to wait to find out when he cast it.
But was it worth the risk? Would the priming help him remember being Voltari’s
apprentice
before
the accident? Would the casting? Did he
want
to
remember that time? He nodded to himself. It was worth the risk to find out.

He organized the scrolls for the sequence of his priming,
saving the most complex one for last, in case it threatened to overwhelm him.
If it did….

It was midday when he finally finished. His companions were
restless, impatient, but he didn’t care. He had done it. More to the point, he
knew—or thought he knew—what the complex spell would do when it was cast, and
he was confident he could cast it.

When he joined the others, he mounted Gretchen without
apology, as if they were there
for him
, and he didn’t have to answer to
them. He ignored Hobart’s impatient frown and moved in behind Ortis as they
left.

The second Ortis came up beside Angus and looked at him for
a long moment before urging his horse a few paces in front of him.

Giorge made a point to fall behind him, joining the third
Ortis at the rear.

Late in the late afternoon, a light drizzle began to fall….

3

The drizzle continued for two days, and they rode at a
guarded pace.

On the first day, it was fairly easy to follow the road; it
hugged the edge of the mountain to the north and skirted the boundary of a
sparse pine forest to the south. The pine trees near the road were mostly young
ones scarcely taller than a mounted man, and there was plenty of room between
most of them. But deeper into the plateau the trees were densely packed old
growth, towering trees that had been living on the plateau for hundreds of
years.

They made good time despite the weather, and at the end of
the day, they camped under an overhang. It wasn’t quite a cave, but it was
large enough for both men and horses to keep dry. The dismal weather dampened
their spirits, and there was little conversation around the sputtering smoke of
the fire they had coaxed to life.

Early on the second day, the road turned southwest, deeper
into the forest, and became more difficult to follow. By midday, a thick
undergrowth of bushes and vines swarmed over the road, and they lost track of
it several times as they rode around them. Each time they left the road behind,
they traveled southwest until they found it again; each time it became more
difficult to find it.

Late in the afternoon they moved south around yet another
sprawling, thorn-encrusted berry patch, and Ortis reined in his steed to wait
for them. He had found a trail.

“What do you think made it?” Hobart asked, dismounting to
join Ortis as he knelt before the trail.

“Deer, mostly,” he said. “A small herd uses this trail
often. Eight, maybe ten individuals. They went that way—” he pointed to the
south “—this morning.”

“Deer?” Hobart repeated. “Perhaps we should camp nearby?
Fresh meat would be most welcome, don’t you think?”

Ortis didn’t respond; he was studying the tracks. “There are
other tracks,” he said. “But they haven’t been through here in some time. The
deer tracks have covered them up too much to identify them. There are claw
prints, like a large cat, but it isn’t a mountain lion—or any other cat I’ve
seen. It looks like it walks on two legs, and the rest of the foot is
elongated, like our own.”

“Cat people?” Giorge asked.

Ortis shrugged. “No way to tell,” he said. “The sign is too
faint.”

“What do you think they were doing?” Hobart asked.

“Stalking deer,” Ortis said. “Their impressions are
shallower going that way—” he pointed north “—than when they came back. They
were probably carrying one or more deer with them when they returned.”

“How long since they went through?”

“About a week, maybe a little more. It’s difficult to tell.”

“Then we don’t need to worry about them,” Angus said.

Ortis shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. Winter is
getting close, and they may be filling their larder. If they are, they’ll be
back for more deer.”

“Do any of you feel like we’re being watched?” Hobart asked.
“Like when we did when we were on that ridge?”

“No,” Ortis conceded. “Once we got deeper into the plateau,
it went away. I don’t feel it at all right now.”

“Nor I,” Giorge said. “Angus?”

Angus looked from one to another and shook his head. “I
haven’t felt anything at all. Here or on the ridge. It doesn’t mean there’s
nothing watching us, though; only that we don’t feel like they are.”

“It doesn’t matter at the moment,” Ortis said. “Whatever
hunts these deer hasn’t been here for at least a week, and the deer use this
trail daily. If we want fresh meat, we need to conceal ourselves soon. If the
deer see us, they will run.”

“It’s late enough in the day that we could make an early
camp,” Hobart suggested. “While we look for a good spot, you can stick around
here to see if you can get a deer. But if you see those other things—whatever
they may be—you better let them be. The longer it is before they know we’re here,
the better it will be for us.”

“I’ll go up the trail,” Ortis said. “If these things were
hunting the deer, they had to have killed them not far from here. Deer wouldn’t
be able to climb that mountain; it’s too steep. They also might have a place
set up to get the deer, and if they do, I’ll find undisturbed tracks.”

“Just like the ones we’re making,” Angus said, looking at
the deep impressions of the horses’ hooves on the soft, muddy ground.

Ortis frowned. “Yes,” he said. “The deer will notice them,
too.”

“So will the other thing,” Hobart added. “Perhaps we
shouldn’t take the time to hunt? It will slow us down.”

“Not much,” Ortis said. “You said yourself that it’s late
enough to make an early camp, and if we set one up near this trail, we won’t
have to hunt. We can just wait for the deer to come to us. If they show, we
should be able to get one without too much trouble, and the time it takes for
butchering it will be well worth it. If they don’t show up, we’re only out
another hour or so of riding in this dreary weather.”

“Fair enough,” Hobart said. “We’ll see if we can find the
road and make camp next to it. You can stay here and see if you can get a
deer.”

“I’ll travel up the trail,” Ortis said. “I’d like to see if
I can find clearer prints.”

“Keep us updated,” Hobart said. “If you get too wet and
cold, come join us.”

Two of Ortis handed their reins to the third, who fell in
behind Hobart while his other selves hurried north along the trail.

Angus clicked his tongue, and Gretchen fell in line behind
Ortis’s steeds.

Giorge took up the rear guard, his eyes alert.

Half an hour later, they still had not rediscovered the
road. Instead, they had come to a narrow, raging stream that had already topped
its banks.

“There’s no sense trying to cross it tonight,” Hobart said.
“It’s too high and muddy. If this drizzle stops, it should be possible to ford
it tomorrow.”

“Do you think we’re north or south of the road?” Angus
asked.

“South,” Hobart said at once. “If we had crossed over it
again, I would have noticed.”

“Let’s go upstream, then,” Angus said. “The road probably
had a bridge over it, and if it didn’t, there may be a shallower place to
cross.”

Hobart nodded and guided Leslie around some bushes, keeping
the sound of the rushing stream to his left as they went.

“Do we really need the deer?” Angus asked. “We still have
plenty of hardtack.”

“We can always use fresh meat,” Giorge said from just behind
him. “Hardtack lasts a long time, and supplementing it with fresh meat will
make it last even longer.”

“How will we carry around the carcass?” Angus asked.

“After it’s dressed,” Giorge said, “it won’t take up that
much room. We’ll drape it over the pack horse.”

Ortis turned in his saddle and added, “Once you’ve spent a
few months in a wilderness like this, you’ll realize how important it is to
keep food in reserve. That hardtack won’t taint for months, and the longer we
have it the better off we’ll be. A stag will feed us for a few days, maybe even
a week, before it begins to go bad in this weather, and whatever we don’t eat
will be scavenged pretty quickly.”

“Are you having any luck?” Giorge asked.

“The deer trail continues north,” Ortis said. “But the other
tracks are heading west. There’s no hint of a blind to ambush the deer.”

“What do their tracks look like?”

“Pretty much what I said before,” Ortis said. “They—”

Hobart had reined in Leslie at the top of a small rise and
held up his arm for silence. When they got closer, they found out why: He had
found the road. There was a bridge crossing over the glutted stream, and next
to it was a small cluster of crudely constructed huts.