Legend of the Ravenstone (39 page)

“Well, the Priagent came back, so I hid. Nobody seen me, I’m pretty sure. ‘Cept the Prophet and the Demon, but the Prophet is dead...” Rourke fell silent, staring without seeing.

“Tell us again what the Priagent did,” Hale said quietly.

“It does not matter,” Argamus interrupted. “They are criminals. They were destined to face justice, be it by some aspect of Secramorian law or by our host.”

“This could shed light upon Rashir’s possession of the stone,” Hale said.

“We would not be here if he did not have the stone,” Argamus asserted, thumping his staff again. “James was snooping where he should not have been. What the Priagent does in his cellar is irrelevant. If he killed the thief, there must have been a body. Was there a body?”

Rourke’s expression was taut. He shook his head.

“Rashir was also not present at dinner,” Hale reminded.

“Because he was resting for tomorrow’s journey, as it was told to us,” Argamus said. “Our business is retrieving the stone. My point being, what was done in secrecy must remain secret. There is nothing we can do at this point. Until he outright tells us that he has the Ravenstone and intends to destroy all of Secramore, we cannot act. And even if he
should
relate this to us, we are not in a position to directly challenge him.
We
are the thieves in this scenario.
We
must exercise the utmost caution and discretion.
We
have been doing a poor job of exercising either.”

“I appreciate your concerns,” Hale said.

Argamus frowned and waited for the inevitable “but.”

“I agree with you.” Hale sat upon the bed. “We need to consider this carefully. Rashir has the stone, and he will have it hidden on our journey. We need to learn where he is keeping it, and once we have a feel for the habits of our company, we need to plot the best time to take it.”

“There may not be a ‘best time,’” Argamus argued. “What if an opportunity never presents itself? Take the object too soon, and its absence will be noticed. We hardly have the means for a ‘take and run’ operation.”

“No, we do not,” Hale agreed. “As I see it, we need to be as close to Veloria as possible. We have to believe Kariayla made it there, and that she and the Ilangiel will be waiting. It will be close—uncomfortably close—but by then we will have a haven, and our backs will be covered. Ideally, Rourke will discreetly obtain the Ravenstone, and we will slip away from camp and head into the forest.”

“And the more likely?” Argamus asked.

“We will need to distract the Priagent and his brothers while Rourke takes the stone and bolts for the forest. I will cover our escape.”

Argamus pulled at his beard and sighed. “This is not a sound plan.”

“There was never a sound plan,” Hale said. “We have an intelligent enemy who has plotted his course very carefully. Surprise is our greatest asset, and unfortunately, it offers no guarantees.” He looked Argamus and Rourke in the eyes. “We knew this before we came here.”

“Yes,” Argamus mumbled, “we did.”

“We are travelers, conversing over meals, tending the fire—”

“Hopefully enjoying the comforts of an inn here and there,” Argamus interjected beneath his breath.

Hale continued, “All the while, we will be attentive to our company—especially Rashir—to discover where he is keeping the stone. Fortunately, he will not have many options.”

In the following pause, Argamus found Rourke with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. “Do not fret, my boy, we have time before we act.” He tried to sound as optimistic as he could, hoping to take weight from the brute’s frown.

“You don’t believe me. You don’t think he killed the Prophet,” Rourke said.

Argamus and Hale exchanged a glance. “My boy, it is not that I do not believe you. I merely consider all the possibilities.”

“Well, I saw it, and I know,” Rourke said.

“I think it will be apparent tomorrow,” Hale said. “When we assemble, the Demon and the Prophet will or will not be in our midst.” Hale stood. “Let’s meet here before breakfast. We will face this journey together.”

T
he morning was brimming with anticipation. The horses were tacked, the wagons were loaded, and breakfast was a brisk breeze passing through, stirring the travelers like fallen leaves before winter’s first breath. The Priagent appeared in good health, and nothing seemed out of order. It was not until the travelers were set to depart that Hale noted the cage in the back of the covered wagon.

“Ah, yes, think of it as a security measure,” Rashir said cheerily.

“What is it?” Hale asked, humorless.

“Why, it is the White Demon, of course.” The Priagent smiled and presented the creature, which was sitting hunched, the top of its prison just an inch shy of its head. It was completely draped in a ratty, hooded cloak, like an old piece of furniture since forgotten. Two bulges on its back hinted at its wings. Rashir tapped on the wooden spokes of the frame with his walking stick, but the creature did not stir. “The storm you experienced when you first arrived was the demon’s doing. It has many uses, and now that it serves me, you may rest assured that no bandit will entertain the thought of robbing this party.”

“Thieves do not concern me. A magic demon does.”

Rashir waved his hand. “As I said, the creature is under my complete control. You have nothing to fear.” He looked down at the tall man’s leg. “Seeing as you will be unable to ride, I will see you situated away from its cage, if that should be of comfort to you.”

Hale frowned and brought his hand to his chin. “Just how do you maintain control of a demon?”

Rashir’s smile faded slightly. “My people have means of containing magic. Our methods are closely guarded, or I would disclose them to you. You have my word that your safety is guaranteed, Lord Hale.” He walked away, pausing only at Nesif’s side. “See that Lord Hale is comfortable in the covered wagon.”

“Are there any other surprises I should be aware of?” Hale voiced after him.

Rashir did not seem to hear him, but Nesif came his way. “The Demon’s presence is a trivial matter,” the Jornoan said. “May I help you inside?”

Hale did not refuse him, nor did he thank him as he offered him a hand. Hale winced and gingerly eased himself on the seat inside, as far from the cage as he could manage. It was the surrounding canvas that enclosed him, however, that drew his attention.

“Are you comfortable, Lord Hale?” Nesif asked politely.

“I do not believe that it matters,” Hale grumbled.

Argamus and Rourke gazed in at their leader. “You are most kind,” the medoriate said to Nesif. He started to climb into the wagon as well, but the Jornoan stopped him.

“If it is agreeable, Rashir would like to sit with you in the open wagon.”

Argamus blinked. “I... Of course,” he said.

Nesif turned to Rourke, whose attention was rapt upon the cage. “We have your horse ready, Enforcer.”

Rourke started to thank him but caught himself and grunted. The three dispersed with just a glance, and the journey began. Hale had estimated a ten-day ride if they were not too leisurely. Ten days did not seem so long until the trio settled into the company of strangers. Silence had settled with them, the result of an awkward social gap that would likely ease after the first day.

Fair weather aided good humor, though as they left the milder lands of the south, the trees were tinged with crimson and gold, and the breeze grew more assertive. The dark peaks of the distant Nightwind Mountains supported the dramatic blue-gray bundles of clouds that rolled across the sky. The road they traveled was worn from merchant wagons, but passersby were few and far between until the group approached a larger town or village. Their first stop was at a small but tidy inn, where they took their midday meal in much the same itchy silence. Full bellies loosened tongues, and the afternoon melted away much reservation and anxiety. Unknown to most of them, they were watched from a lofty distance by a lone hawk—a mere speck amongst the dramatic skyscape.

~*~

R
ourke patted his mare’s neck, grateful the horse Othenis had given him was of an easy-going nature. He was certainly not an experienced rider, but he had gone for the occasional stolen race around the corral. He and his thieving buddies used to sneak by Daniel Stormway’s pasture during the dark hours before dawn, lure the horses to the fence, and hop atop their backs. He would swear the horses had as much fun as they did, galloping from one end of the field to the other, testing the spirit and the speed of horse and rider. Rourke found he had not thought of his old friends in a long time, having been too distracted by this new turn in his life. Would they ever believe that he—the jinxed street rat—was on an important mission to steal a magic rock? Or that the White Demon was in his company?

Then again, his “friends” had banished him from their group. He had become a liability to them, a wobbly leg under the table. Already he knew he was not the same. He felt he was on the brink of change—some new and amazing development in his unlucky life. A part of him knew he was in danger, but the majority of him remembered his promises: to help his new friends by stealing the Ravenstone and to help the White Demon by setting him free. He had no cause to think back upon his old life, but even so....

Rourke stopped the affectionate pat when he realized he was being watched. Hesun was to the left of him, Arshod to the right. He straightened his back and lifted his head. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked when they refused to turn away.

“Do not ask it of him,” Hesun said to Arshod. “You see that he is yet healing from our incident at the bar.” He gestured to Rourke’s blackened eye.

“What is a bruise to him?” Arshod argued. “Nothing but a sliver, if even.” The Jornoan gave Rourke a nod. “I was considering our set engagement.”

Huh?
Rourke waited for clarification, trying not to look confused.

“You remember our fight, do you not?” Arshod asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Rourke said.

“I was thinking we might have an opportunity to proceed tonight,” Arshod said. “Rashir wishes to camp beside the road. We will stop before dark to prepare dinner. That will be our time.”

“Fine with me,” Rourke said, though his heart pounded with the quick beat of those stolen rides in Daniel Stormway’s pasture. How would he weasel out of this scenario? Could he? He stared ahead to where Argamus rode with the Priagent in the wagon, though the medoriate never looked back his way. Rourke glanced behind him to where the covered wagon rolled along, knowing Hale was somewhere beneath the canvas. Hale had gotten him out of trouble in the bar; he might have an idea how to avoid this fight. Hale would not grow as angry as Argamus if he should happen to explain just how he got into this predicament. Feeling slightly relieved in his decision, Rourke let out a deep breath.

“I have bet money on you, Enforcer,” Hesun said with a grin.

Rourke of the East Freeland Enforcers managed a weak smile, his stomach now tied in a hangman’s knot.

When the sun was riding atop the treeline to the west, the travelers veered into an open field a short distance from the road. Rourke immediately headed for the covered wagon, approaching his leader, who looked relieved to be out in the open air. As quickly and as quietly as he could, he explained his situation.

“So whatcha think I should do?” Rourke whispered.

Hale eased himself to the ground, where he stretched out his ailing leg. “I would guess you’ve already considered your options.”

Rourke took a breath. “Fight or not fight?”

“If you think of an excuse not to fight....”

“I’ll be a coward.” The brute’s shoulders slumped. “What if the sword don’t work? Or what if it works too good, and I kill ‘im? I can’t do this, Hawkwing.”

The tall man whacked Rourke across the shins with his walking aid. “Hale.”

“Sorry. I can’t do this, Mr. Hale.”

“The sword will act defensively so long as you act defensively. Two important pointers: stance and breathing. Your stance gives you balance. Your breathing keeps your head and lungs clear and your energy strong.” Hale held his gaze. “No, this is not a good idea, but since you are committed, you must face this the best way possible.”

“I wish I could give you the sword. You know how to fight. In the bar, you—”

“Rourke.”

“Yeah, I know—I’m s’poseta say
I
fought our way out.” Rourke sat down across from his leader. “But I know the truth. I’m just really glad you found us when you did. I don’t know how you did, but—”

“Rourke.” Hale closed his eyes and rubbed his brow.

“What?”

“I knew the tavern.”

“You been there before,” Rourke said. “I get it. Never thought you’d hang in those places, Hawk—Mr. Hale. It was really crowded and dark, and the ceiling was like this low—” He held his hand just over his own head.

“Yes,” Hale said quietly.

“Sumthin’ wrong?” Rourke asked. Then his eyes widened. “You know, there was a painting in there. By Lorth, it looked just like you. I mean, the guy looked a lot scarier, with his big hands, wild beard, and—”

“It was me,” Hale said. He looked to where Argamus was already sipping from a cup, chatting with Rashir as the fire was constructed and camp made. “This must stay between us.”

Rourke could tell Hale was deadly serious. “Yeah, I swear it,” he said.

“Sometimes we get lost,” Hale said. “We end up walking a path we never intended, and we become strangers to ourselves. ‘Talon’ was the stranger. He was angry, alone, and utterly miserable, and so he fought. He fought well, because his anger was all he had, but he knew he was being exploited. Every fight brought in money, but he never saw any of it. He was blind to everything but his sorrow, though in his heart, he knew this path was wrong.”

“So what’d he—you—do?” Rourke asked, incredulous.

“Nothing. I could not dig myself from the hole I was in, and I could not face a day sober. Soon I forgot who I was. One day, there was a fight, and everything changed. This was not a planned fight; it happened in the street, late at night. Much of it I don’t remember, because I blacked out. When I woke, I found my attacker beside me. I did not check, but in my heart, I knew he was dead. I walked away, and I knew I would never leave that moment behind me.”