Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (30 page)

Horace pulled out a small purse of coins and tossed out five silver coins.

“Gold, I was told I would be paid gold.” The tracker fished out three gold crowns and slapped them into her hand. The coins quickly disappeared into her tunic. “Hey,” she called after him as he began to walk away. When he turned she waggled her little finger at him.

Horald and Ronwald both guffawed. “Well, she should know,” Horald said and laughed some more.

With the tension eased they all returned to their meal, Ivannia sitting beside Aliss. “Have you always lived in Alka-Roha?” she asked.

“No, not always. My village lies to the south, but I have lived in the Red City since I was a girl.”

“Why did you leave your family?”

“I was left with little choice. There were too many mouths to feed and not enough food. My father took me to Alka-Roha. He exchanged me for enough coin to feed the rest of them for another year.”

“Your father sold you to the brothel?” Aliss failed to conceal the shock from her face. Ivannia simply nodded before tearing a chunk of bread and stuffing it into her mouth.

“I…” she began.

“I do not need your sympathy,” Ivannia cut her off. Aliss simply nodded and pursued the issue no further.

Shortly before nightfall, when the dying sun bled a crimson trail into the sky, they passed through a small village of squat, whitewashed huts. Women ushered small children indoors as the armed strangers rode through the town, their horses kicking up dust and leaving a billowing cloud in their wake. Men eyed them suspiciously, but none approached them or barred their way, nor were they given invitation or welcome to stay.

“Friendly bunch,” Horald commented as they rode the length of the main street.

“They are frightened of strangers. Especially strangers with weapons. They are usually bandits and only come into the villages to rob what little they have,” Ivannia quickly answered.

“Just like home then,” the man-at-arms answered, grinning.

“We should stop here for the night, it will be dark soon,” Tomas said.

“No,” Ivannia answered. “We are not welcome here. I know a place where we can camp for the night. It is not far.”

Tomas’s gaze found hers, her dark eyes unreadable. “Don’t they have an inn? Or even a stable we could bed down in?”

“Leave it be,” Aliss interjected. “We will go with Ivannia.”

Their guide led on without another word and soon the town disappeared into dust. She led them towards a small group of hills. Visibility became very poor as light drained from the sky. Riding in the dark over foreign terrain was a treacherous thing to do, and Tomas was becoming anxious they stop for the night. As the hills loomed closer, he could just make out an opening between them. Ivannia suddenly kicked her horse towards the gap, quickly leaving the rest behind.

“What’s that fool of a girl doing? She’ll break hers and her horse’s neck,” Horace spat, his contempt clear in his voice.

“Follow her, or we’ll lose her in the dark,” Aliss said and urged her horse after Ivannia’s.

“No, wait!” Tomas called her back. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. Aliss arched her eyebrows. “This doesn’t feel right,” he answered her unspoken question. Even as he spoke dark shapes emerged from between the hills.

“Riders!” Ronwald barked, drawing his sword, the steel glinting in the receding light.

Tomas could make out a dozen or so riders coming at them fast. “Horace, get Aliss to safety,” he commanded the weasel-faced tracker.

“No,” Aliss said defiantly. “There’s no time.”

Within moments the riders were upon them, the robes they wore as protection from the sun billowed as they rode. They all bore weapons – scimitars, spears.

“Bandits,”
Tomas snarled. Behind him Horace had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow. Horald and Ronwald waited with swords drawn. “Aim for the one at the head,” he instructed the tracker. Horace took aim and fired. The arrow looped into the air, missing his intended target, but finding a mark in one of the riders behind. A dark shape was punched from a horse, rolled in the dust and was quickly left behind.

The three swordsmen kicked their mounts into action and went to meet the charge head-on. Tomas swung his sword at the first bandit as his momentum took him through the group. The sound of hoof beats on the hard ground was quickly replaced by the noise of clashing steel and the screams of men dying. The maelstrom of mounted fighting men quickly became a swirling mass of dust. Horses screamed in protest as their riders fought to control them and swing their weapons at the same time. Tomas stabbed out at a dark-robed assailant, even as others lashed at him. A scimitar flashed by his head, the man behind it disappeared into the storm, dragged from his horse by Ronwald. He saw Horald gritting his teeth as he brought his sword down onto the head of a bandit. An arrow thumped a rider in the chest and he slumped onto his horse’s neck before falling off altogether. Still there were too many.

Then he saw Aliss. She was at the edge of the melee, her eyes blazing as she made circular motions with her hands. He parried a spear thrust and swung at the neck of the spearman. A black cloud began to form in the palm of her hand. He could see her lips moving as she silently worded some incantation. The dark cloud grew to the size of a head, and she thrust it from her. A swirling mass of darkness enveloped the head of the lead bandit, cutting off his scream, energy crackled in tiny flashes, dancing from the first rider to men either side of him. All three suddenly burst into flames.

Tomas parried a half-hearted blow from an opponent before the man turned and fled, along with those brigands left alive. What was left of the three burning men lay still, their remains charred husks. He leapt from his horse, as Aliss dropped to her knees, and ran to catch her before she toppled over.

“Aliss… what did you do?” He felt her weight falling into his arms. Her eyes were closed, and when she opened them he could see the swirling grey clouds pulsing with energy.

“I drew heat from the air and below the surface of the ground and directed it towards those men,” she answered.

“But how?” Tomas’s voice trembled.

“I just knew,” she answered quietly.

“Witch!” a female voice cried in accusation. Horace dragged Ivannia by her long dark hair and pushed her to the ground. “Sorceress!” she spat as she looked in the direction of the three scorched corpses. “You killed my brother with witchcraft.” She began to sob then.

Horace unsympathetically shoved his hand into her tunic and retrieved the coins he had earlier given her. His rummaging took longer than was necessary, but Tomas was in no mood to chastise him for tormenting the woman who had just betrayed them.

“You led us here to be ambushed,” he said.

With the aid of Tomas’s arm, Aliss pulled herself to her feet. She walked slowly towards the woman, who would have backed away if not for Horace’s hold on her. “Do you even know where the temple is?”

Ivannia nodded in answer, tears streaming down her face, her lip trembling in fear. “Don’t burn me,” she pleaded.

Horace leered and put his hand inside her tunic again. Ivannia didn’t even notice, she was so intent on Aliss.

“Leave her be,” Aliss said to Horace. The tracker shot her a defiant look but pushed the woman away and joined the other men. She then turned her full attention back to Ivannia. The courtesan flinched away from the hard gaze of Aliss. “You will take us to the temple. No more tricks.”

“And you will let me live?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Aliss answered.

Tomas turned away from the scene, no longer able to watch the terrified harlot or the hard, pitiless look on his woman’s face, nor the grey swirling eyes, flecked with tiny silver bolts, set so coldly on Ivannia. This journey had changed her beyond all recognition, he thought. The magic wrought by Haera, in the Great Wood, to bring her back from the threshold of death, had changed her.
What has become of his Aliss?
he wondered.
Will she ever return?

Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle

R
osinnio stood on the quayside, with what seemed like the entire population of Wind Isle, or at least its main town: Osfeld… her home. The people had turned out to greet the return of their jarl, she was there to welcome home her husband. Cheers and cries of greeting rang out as the flotilla of longboats manoeuvred into harbour. She remembered her own arrival, what seemed a lifetime ago, on board one of her father’s ponderous sailing ships, nothing like the sleek longboats of the Nortmen. Beside her was Crawulf’s counsellor, Brandlor, and as always, her shadow, the giant warrior Rothgar.

“Many ships return, and riding low in the water. A good sign they are full of treasure,” Brandlor said.

To the outside world, the islands of Nortland were known as the Pirate Isles, inhabited by fierce sea raiders. Rosinnio had heard many tales, both as a child and a grown woman, of the horrific deeds perpetrated by these pirates all along coastal towns, even sailing their sleek longboats as far as the empire, to snatch and grab what they could before disappearing into the mist. The irony that she was now cheering home one such raid was not lost on her. She spotted Crawulf in the lead ship, one hand resting on the serpent-head prow.
Even from distance he looks relaxed,
she thought. His eyes searched the crowd until he spotted her, then he waved. She raised her hand in greeting as a horde of butterflies colonised her insides. She knew what would be expected of her, as a wife, later that night. It was a duty she accepted, perhaps not willingly, but she would perform and play the role the gods fated for her. Perhaps it would not be so bad if he drank a little less… a lot less, but she knew there was a feast planned and the hall would be awash with Nortmen quaffing ale, wine and honey mead. Their jarl would be a willing leader in the festivities.

Her father had sent her north, to the Pirate Isles, to become the wife of a Nortman. As a princess it was her duty to obey her emperor and accept her betrothal to whomever he deigned. Even so, the prospect of life on the damp and misty isles of Nortland had terrified her, even more the thought of being wed to one and living among them. They were still a mystery to her, but she would like to think she had grown up a lot in her short time on Wind Isle. She had accepted her fate with as much grace as she could muster and was determined to make the most of what she had been fated with. Did she miss the feel of warm sunshine on her face? Or inhaling the heady aroma of jasmine in the night air? Of course. Did she still cry herself to sleep every night at the prospect of never seeing her homeland again? Yes and most likely would for a very long time. The sound of gulls shrieking in the air as they sought to steal an easy meal from a fishing boat, or the feel of damp mist on her skin every time she stepped outside would never compare with the lush and colourful gardens of her father’s palace. Yet, for all their wild ways, and harsh guttural language, the people of Nortland had an honesty about them. She may not understand it, or them, but if they smiled they were happy, if they scowled they were angry. Simple, honest folk… who robbed and slaughtered their way through life.
I will never understand them.
She smiled then.

Crawulf leapt across a yawning gap between ship and dock and landed firmly on both feet. A cheer erupted from the assembled crowd at his show of bravado. They were rewarded with a grin from their jarl. He spotted Rosinnio and headed straight for her. Her nerves were set on edge. She had quickly become used to life without him the weeks he had been away raiding. Now she would have to grow accustomed to being a married woman once again.

“My lady,” he greeted her with a grin. She dipped her head demurely. “I have a gift,” he said and held out a necklace towards her.

She took the gold chain, a large emerald wrapped in gold wire hung from the end. It was a pretty thing—she’d worn far more valuable baubles in her life as a princess of the Sunsai Empire—yet this gift touched something in her heart. “It is beautiful, my lord,” she said.

Crawulf smiled, clearly pleased she liked his gift. He looked almost boyish, she thought, with his impish grin. She smiled then, surprising herself to discover she was, in some ways, actually pleased to see her husband. His was a familiar face in a land of strangers.

“Jarl Crawulf,” Brandlor interrupted the meeting between husband and wife. “Welcome home, my jarl. I trust the raid was rewarding and eventful and you will have many tales of heroism and mighty deeds to enthral us with later.”

“Oh aye,” he answered with a grin. “And how have you looked after my wife and home?”

“There are some matters I would like to address with you,” the counsellor answered, his expression stern. “There has been some trouble with wolves in the northern pastures of Halock’s Feld, and the castle roof has sprung another leak…” And so the returning hero was barraged with all of the mundane problems a jarl is duty-bound to face. Rosinnio could only shake her head as Crawulf was ushered off the quayside by Brandlor, with the older man listing the many problems the jarl would now have to deal with.

“It is good that they have returned safely, my lady,” Rosinnio’s handmaiden said.

“Yes, Marta, it is,” she answered, turning towards her servant. The other woman’s attention was elsewhere however. Rosinnio followed her line of sight and her gaze fell on a tall warrior walking up the quay, a heavy chest over one shoulder a battleaxe in his other hand. He was glancing their way with a grin on his face. “Marta!”

Marta’s cheeks reddened and she turned her head to hide her embarrassment. “Yes, my lady?” she answered with as much decorum as she could muster.

“He’s handsome… for a Nortman.” Both women tried and failed to suppress giggles. “Come, there will be a feast tonight. I’m sure you wish to look your best.” Marta’s eyes opened wide and her face turned crimson once again.

Back in her chambers Rosinnio prepared herself for the night’s festivities. As she sat at a small table, allowing Marta to drag a silver comb through her wet hair, the door suddenly burst open. Both women jumped with fright at the sudden intrusion. Crawulf stood in the opening, hands on hips.