Cold Magics (16 page)

 Eileen and George stayed beside Thomas for the entire ride. Several times, as Thomas was resting his eyes, George punched him in the shoulder, the pain pulling him momentarily back into focus. Each time, though, it became harder and harder to care.

“What’s wrong with him?”

It took Thomas a moment to focus in on the speaker, another to realize who Sir Michael was talking about.

“He’s tired,” said Eileen.

“He looks ready to die,” said Michael. “He can barely keep his saddle.”

“I’m fine,” said Thomas, but the words were nearly inaudible. He tried again. “I’m fine.”

That time the words must have come out far louder than he had intended because everyone in the party looked over at him. George shook his head and looked to Henry. “How long before we reach that inn?”

“An hour,” said Henry, casting a critical eye over Thomas. “Will he make it?”

“I will,” said Thomas, again, a little too loud. “I’ll be fine.”

Michael looked ready to say more, but Henry called him to take over rear-guard, and he fell back. Thomas clung harder to his saddle and focused on the road ahead. There was a spell for focusing one’s mind, but Thomas had the sneaking suspicion that casting one spell to relieve the effects of another was like trying to stop a leak in a barrel by hitting it with an axe.

By the time they reached the border, marked by a large milestone and a wooden sign pointing toward the inn, Thomas was swaying in the saddle. George took the reins and led Thomas’s horse, so that Thomas could ride slumped over the animal’s neck. Henry rode by and asked if they should tie him to the horse, but Thomas promised to keep his saddle himself until they reached the inn. He managed to do it. He sat up as George brought the horses to a stop and got a very brief look at the building’s rough stone exterior before passing out.

10

 Thomas regained consciousness in a warm bed. He looked around and saw a narrow table, a washstand, and Eileen. She sat in the room’s only chair, reading through one of the spell books.

“What’s the time?” asked Thomas.

Eileen shut the book and came over to him. “Hello.”

“Hello. What’s the time?”

“Late afternoon,” said Eileen.

“Is Henry chafing to get going?”

“Not at all,” said Eileen. “There’s a messenger post here. Henry’s sent the man out to the nearest lord for reinforcements. Says that this inn is as secure a place to stop as any.”

“Did he say how far we are from Frostmire Castle?”

“Another five days’ ride,” said Eileen. She sat down on the bed beside him. “The knights are talking amongst themselves about last night.”

“No surprise.”

“There’s some wondering why you could see the enemy out there and they couldn’t.”

“Also no surprise,” said Thomas, pushing back the covers. “Anyone mention the word ‘witch’?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that’s good, anyway.” He sat up. They had put him to bed fully clothed, save for his boots and jacket, which he located at the foot of the bed. He was wobbly on his feet, but not as bad as he had been after calling lightning in Bishop Malloy’s yard and healing George.

Maybe because I don’t have as much magic in me
, Thomas thought.
So it’s not taking as much out of me.

“I made them save you some stew from lunch,” said Eileen.

“You are wonderful,” said Thomas as he pushed his feet into his boots. “Lead the way.”

Thomas followed Eileen down to the common room, where the knights sat, talking, dicing, and playing at cards. There was no sign of George or Henry.

“He’s up,” said Sir Lawrence, when he spotted Thomas coming down the stairs.

“Good to have you back, lad,” said Michael. “You get these spells often?”

“Not often,” said Thomas. “But they come and go.”

“And how is it you’re to help us, then?” asked Sir Martin. “If you can’t actually keep a saddle.”

“He kept his saddle,” said Sir Gareth. “It was getting out of it that nearly undid him.”

A chuckle made its way around the room and gave Thomas time enough to find a chair. Eileen opened a door, giving Thomas a glimpse of the kitchen while she spoke to whoever was inside. A moment later she was back. “They’re bringing your stew now.”

“And lucky you are to get it,” said Lawrence. “The lass there had to fight Michael and Gareth off to keep it safe.”

Thomas turned to Eileen. “Did you hurt them?”

“Not badly,” said Eileen.

“Aye, her tongue’s a good deal better a weapon than her sword,” said Patrick. “Thought I was back at home with the wife for a moment there.”

Another chuckle went around the table, strong enough that Thomas guessed stories of Patrick’s wife had already made the rounds several times. Eileen was blushing slightly, but smiling at the tease. A moment later a woman came from the kitchen with a large bowl of stew. The smell of it set Thomas’s stomach rumbling, and the moment it was set before him he started digging in, nearly burning his mouth with the first few bites.

“Just a little hungry,” teased Lawrence.

“You’d swear he’d been working all afternoon like his friend, instead of sleeping,” said Michael.

“There’s a small forge in the back of the inn,” explained Eileen. “George is re-shoeing the horses.”

“At least one of you is doing to do us some good,” said Sir Martin, rising. “Now if the girl can clean dishes we’ll have two useful additions to this trip.”

His tone was mocking, not teasing, and Eileen stiffened. Martin had already turned on his heel and started toward the door by the time Eileen opened her mouth to retort. She closed it and glared at him. Thomas put down his spoon. “Should I go after him?”

“Nay,” said Eileen. “Not worth the effort.”

“He was attempting to be funny,” said Patrick. “He’s never succeeded before, so his failure now shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“True,” said Gareth. “That one couldn’t tell a joke if someone wrote it out for him.”

The other knights chuckled, and Eileen relaxed a bit. Thomas picked his spoon back up and started eating again. The stew was rich and thick, and by the time he was done he was feeling almost well again.

They stayed the night at the inn. Henry sent a messenger to Baron Bellew in Tillmany Town, a day’s ride away, asking for men to meet them on the road. Thomas gratefully slept the night away and rose feeling once more like himself.

They rode out at a steady trot as the sun was just beginning to rise above the horizon. The inn quickly fell away behind them, giving way to a bleak landscape. The snow was several inches thick and had formed a hard crust along the ground that crunched under the horse’s hooves. The road itself was not visible, and Henry and the knights judged their direction by landmarks and milestones.

The wind came up, cold and dry, sucking the warmth from any exposed skin it touched. It pulled the hard snow up from the ground and hurtled it across the earth in stinging waves that cut into the eyes of the riders and their mounts. Talking became a misery. Throats ached and lips chapped whenever they came out from behind the travellers’ scarves. Conversation quickly fell to nothing, and throughout the morning there was no sound except the wind hissing across the ground and the snow crunching under the horses’ hooves.

The day was clear and as the sun rose its hard light reflected off the earth, nearly blinding the riders. The knights showed Thomas and his friends how to pull their scarves tight around their heads, shading their eyes and leaving only slits to see through. They stopped to put blinders on the horses, bought in Weaversland for the purpose.

“This winter travelling is not much fun,” said Eileen as they mounted again.

“It is not,” agreed Gareth.

“How do you move supplies?” asked Thomas.

“Sleds,” said Gareth. “Now, those are a mighty fun ride.”

“Awful when they get stuck, though,” said Michael. “One year we got an early thaw and had to push the damn things over four miles of mud.”

“I remember that campaign,” said Lawrence. “A miserable time was had by all.”

They rode on through the rest of the morning. Thomas, like the others, kept his eyes on the horizon, looking for sign either of pursuit or of reinforcements, but saw nothing of either. The higher the sun rose, the more agitated Henry became. He was keeping it in fairly well, but he was shifting in his saddle a fair amount, and at one point sent Gareth to scout ahead.

When the sun reached its zenith, the group stopped and huddled together for lunch. Henry stood away from them, eyes on the horizon. After half an hour or so had passed, Thomas picked up Henry’s lunch and took it to him.

“Eat, Lord Henry,” said Thomas, putting just enough emphasis on the title to make it a tease. “You won’t do anyone any good going hungry.”

Henry took the food without comment and started chewing methodically. His eyes stayed on the horizon. Thomas waited for him to finish the mouthful before asking, “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry. “The sky is clear, the wind is bearable, the cold isn’t too extreme. They should have met us by now.”

Thomas looked out at the barren landscape and the rolling ground. An army could be easily hidden just out of sight. “You think someone attacked them?”

“Or the messenger,” said Henry. “Either way it isn’t good.”

“So now what?”

Henry took another bite. “We keep going,” he said around the mouthful. “If the enemy is behind us, we can’t let them catch up. If they’re in front of us, I’d rather ride into them than have them attack us while we sleep.”

“All right,” said Thomas. “Finish your food first, though. If we’re going to fight, we’ll need the second best blade in Hawksmouth at full strength.”

Henry snorted but didn’t retort, and didn’t take his eyes off the horizon until he was finished his meal. As soon as he was, he turned to the waiting troop. “Mount up. Tillmany Town is still most of a day’s ride from here.” He mounted his own horse. “We keep moving until we get there. I don’t want to sleep out here tonight.”

They mounted and followed Henry across the barren snowscape. He moved them at a brisk trot again, stopping as little as possible to rest the horses. The knights were nervous now, and everyone was constantly scanning the horizon in all directions. When the sun dipped low, they stopped and ate a brief, cold supper.

“Thomas!” Henry called.

Thomas rode up to the front of their small column. “Yes?”

“Take the lead. Watch the road.”

“Right,” said Thomas.

Henry turned to Patrick. “Ride beside him. Keep him alive.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They rode on as the sun fell behind the earth and the blue sky started fading to black. Thomas could feel his horse slowing underneath him. The night was colder than the day had been, and it was sapping the energy from the tired animals. Thomas shivered in his saddle. Sir Patrick, armoured in very cold steel, rode beside him, looking untouched by the weather.

“How can you stand that armour?” asked Thomas.

“Years of practice,” said Patrick. “And four layers of padding underneath.” He smiled. “And if you are ever called to wear armour in winter, remember not to drink anything while your beard is touching the steel.” He was silent for a while, then asked Thomas, “So, how well
can
you see?”

“Very.”

“Well enough to see the road ahead?”

“Aye.”

“How far ahead?”

Thomas turned his attention from the road. Patrick’s inner light was bright enough for Thomas to clearly see the other man’s face. There was no malice there; only genuine curiosity. “Far enough that if I tell you something is out there, you need to believe me. All right?”

Patrick nodded. “All right.”

They rode on into the night. Thomas slowed their pace to a walk, both to rest the horses and to help him see. The snow had no light of its own; no magic glowed from it. The few trees and what long grasses poked up through the snow shone with their own light, but it was dim, as though they were saving their energy.

Which is what they’re doing
, Thomas realized.
Sleeping until spring
.

In such a landscape, any person or animal shone like a beacon to Thomas. He spotted a rabbit moving off to one side, and a while later something that looked like a large dog, keeping pace with them. He told Patrick about it.

“Wolf,” said Patrick. “How many?”

“Just the one,” said Thomas.

“Lone male, then. Not a surprise. You generally don’t see packs this far south, but strays sometimes wander down looking for food.”

It was well into the night when Thomas spotted the body of the messenger.

It was hard to tell what it was at first. All Thomas could see was a strange, dark shape blocking the light from a tree. Closer, the shape resolved itself into the body of a man, its own light long since fled. He called a halt and waited for Henry to catch up. As soon as Thomas told him, he sent Michael and Martin to look. They were back a moment later.

“It’s him,” said Martin. “He’s got a pair of arrows in him, and his throat’s been cut. His message bag was torn open.”

“Wonderful,” said Henry. “They know we’re coming.”

To Thomas’s eyes, the ground around the dead messenger suddenly lit blood red in a dozen places. He shouted, “Look out!” as men burst upwards from the snow, casting aside the skins that had covered them and drawing weapons. A dozen men charged forward, screaming battle cries. Four others stayed in place and raised bows.

“Thomas! George! Stay back and protect Eileen!” Henry shouted as he wheeled his horse toward the attackers. He dug in his spurs and his horse leapt forward. “Charge!”

The enemy’s archers fired at the horses, piercing several of the animals’ flesh. The knights drove their mounts forward into the charging mass of men. A moment later, all was chaos.

It was Thomas’s second real battle, and his first from horseback. The horses they had purchased in Weaversland were not trained for war, and tried to pull away. Thomas gave up trying to draw his sword and focused on getting the panicked animal back to Eileen and her brother. Both were fighting to keep their horses under control. Thomas could see the fear in their faces.