Mystic: A Book of Underrealm (28 page)

“The Dorsean blockade,” Loren said. “Three ships, same as we saw east of the city. We should put ashore here, out of their arrows’ range. It does not seem they have seen us.”

“We could do so,” said Xain. “But I had another idea. You hail from Selvan, do you not?”

“I do,” said Loren, brow furrowing.
 

“As do I.” She saw the flash of Xain’s teeth in the moonslight as he smiled. “And while our thoughts have been preoccupied with other things, still I am not blind to Wellmont’s suffering. What say we play our part to alleviate this siege?”

“I know nothing of this war, and it does not concern me,” said Loren. “I am no fighter.”

“Nor I. Yet I have my talents. Watch.”

Xain raised his hands, and his eyes turned black. In the night, they became pits where Loren could see nothing, lending his face a skull-like appearance. It reminded her of his madness, and she suppressed a shiver.

Her gaze was drawn to the Dorsean blockade against her will. She expected to see the ships burst into flame, white tongues lapping at the sails or mayhap for a great gale to descend from the sky and send them to kindling against the shore. But at first she saw nothing.

“What are you doing?” said Loren.

“Look closer. See the darkness within the night.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” said Annis.

Loren clutched the girl’s sleeve. “I see it.”

A black . . .
something
swelled around the ships, whirling about the hulls where they met the water. Like flame it moved, darker than the surrounding night. Loren could only see it by its absence of light—like a blot of ink on dark skin, or a bloodstain on a black cloak. Where the thing spread, the river water lost its glint, and the moons no longer shone on the hull’s wooden planks

“What is it?” said Loren, her voice shaking.

“It is called darkfire,” said Xain, his voice quivering with power. “Like my fire but strengthened by the magestones. The stones do not only strengthen a wizard’s gift—they
change
it. We are more powerful, each in our own way.”

“It is only flame, then?” said Loren.

“It burns twice as hot, it offers no light, and neither water nor wind will douse it. Darkfire will not die until it has consumed all it has kissed. Our Dorsean friends must make for the shore, or they will be lost.”

Loren turned on him angrily. “Put it out, wizard! You could kill everyone aboard those ships before they see what you have done.”

“That is unlikely.” He pointed. “See? Even now they are aware.”

Loren heard a shout. The men on the ships erupted into a flurry of activity, like ants whose hill had been doused with water. Some ran for water barrels and dumped them over the side, but it had no more effect on the darkfire than the river. Flames licked higher and higher up the hulls, and one of the ships sagged in the water, its bow tipping up as the stern slipped slowly downwards. Angry shouts turned to fear, and Loren saw some men fling themselves over the side of the ships. Thankfully, they landed far from the flames—Loren did not want to imagine what would happen if the darkfire caught the sailors in its blaze.

“Put it out!” she commanded. “If they do not burn to death, they will drown!”

“The river is gentle,” said Xain, his voice hard. “Any true sailor can swim to shore. And if the captains are wise, they will set their sails for solid ground.”

It seemed the wizard was right. Even as some men scrambled for the water, others sprang into action at the officers’ shouts. Slowly, achingly slowly, the sails rose. They caught the night’s gentle breeze, and the ships drifted for the southern shore.

“We have watched long enough,” he said. “They make for land, and so shall we. There is much ground yet to cover before the dawn.”

Their boat lurched, prodded through the water by Xain. She felt a grinding underfoot as the hull scraped the riverbank.
 

Loren looked southwest again. Two ships had landed. The third almost made it. but its back half sagged enough to slow it down. Water sloshed through the railings onto the deck. Discipline abandoned, the crew flung themselves headlong into the river. Loren could see the captain—a tall man in a yellow coat glowing in torchlight. He bellowed at his men as they abandoned him, but in the end had no one to scream at. So he shucked his coat and joined their flight.

She turned her back and took Annis’s hand, helping the girl over the riverboat’s railing and onto the shore. Together, they struck north as ships burnt behind them, consumed by midnight-colored flames.

Xain fell into step beside them, bouncing with his stride.
 

“I feel stronger by the moment. The Mystic’s enchantment seems to be losing the last of its hold on me.”

“I am glad,” said Loren, though she was not. “Perhaps it is best if we part ways now. Mayhap Annis and I can return to the city before the sun rises. It will be harder to sneak in during daylight.”

“Though it sounds strange, you will have a quicker time if you carry on north for a while. The road out of Wellmont runs north, but soon turns west into the foothills of the Greatrocks Mountains. We are scarcely an hour’s hard walk away, and from there your journey to the city will be cut in half. Fear not, for you will be parted from me soon.”

“Not soon enough.” Annis rubbed at her neck where the wizard had burnt it. Xain only smiled.

“Very well,” said Loren, though she wanted badly to part from his company. “North it is.”

They placed the southern moon at their backs and hastened their steps. The land sloped gently upwards, and the moonslight was more than enough to see any uneven ground. But of this there was precious little; for they walked on green grass that bent pleasantly underfoot, beneath the boughs of trees that whispered and sighed in the night’s chilly sweet air. If circumstances were different, Loren might have enjoyed herself. Ground, trees, and sky blended to remind her of the Birchwood. Not her parents or most of the villagers, but her best memories of home: the nights she had spent exploring the forest with Chet.

They would walk together in the light of stars and moons, most of the time feeling no need to speak. They would listen to the forest’s nighttime song and watch silver rays falling through the leaves to paint patterns on the ground, more elegant than the intricate designs of the finest merchants’ cloth. The nightingale’s song sounded like a bard’s ballad, and the rustle of beasts and birds in the underbrush was like the whispering of friends.

They spoke in whispers and murmurs, their words straying far from their troubles. They imagined brighter futures and better times to come, a thousand impossible ways to escape the dull and dreary fates before them. Though Loren knew such thoughts for dreams, they were easier to imagine there in the night, to see them stretching out sylvan and wondrous as the starlight itself.
 

But she had never told Chet about her dreams of the Nightblade nor her determination to see those dreams true. He listened and never questioned her wildest imaginings, but still her greatest wish was too personal. She wondered what he would think of her now. A poor excuse for a master thief, running penniless and hungry from one danger to the next, only worsening her problems with each passing day and well-meant action.
 

“We are close.” Xain pulled Loren from her thoughts and pointed at a low hill ahead. “We shall find the road just on the other side of this hill. Then our ways will part, well and truly.”

“Good,” said Annis, walking faster. “Let us hurry.”

“You wound me,” said Xain with a smirk, meeting her pace.
 

Halfway up the hill, something tickled Loren’s mind: a sense that something was wrong, though she could not place the danger. She looked around them but saw nothing amiss. Then she heard it: a low murmur, growing louder as they climbed.

“What is that?” she said. “Do you hear it?”

“I do,” said Xain, looking troubled. “Though I hesitate to guess, I fear it may mean . . .”

Annis gave an exasperated snort. “I know not what you speak of nor do I care. I want this mad adventure finished so I may return to the city where things can go back to what passes for normal in our lives. Make haste, Loren.”

She reached the top of the hill and stopped dead in her tracks. Loren caught up a moment later, saw what Annis had seen, and felt her body seize.

An army lay below them, camped north of the road, stretching over the foothills on the other side. Hundreds of men, many hundreds more than there had been before. For Loren had seem this army, and even in the darkness knew who they were. At long last, after a march of many leagues, the Dorsean mercenaries had arrived at Wellmont.

thirty-four

SHE FELL TO THE GROUND with Annis and swept her feet at Xain’s legs. He crashed to the ground with an angry grunt. But when he rose to his elbows and glared at her, Loren put a finger to her lips and answered in a whisper.

“Be silent and still. They will have sentries posted, and you will not see them in the dark. Or do you want to bring the army down upon our heads?”

Anger did not leave his eyes, but he silently turned to the army before them.

No campfires burnt, but moonslight was more than enough to illuminate the countless canvas tents. A few torches shone, held by walking watchmen.

“Why are there no fires?” whispered Annis.
 

“They are trying not to be seen,” said Loren. “But they must know they cannot hide so large a force for long. I would wager they mean to attack in the morrow. And if they meant to march at dawn, the camp would be roused already. They are letting the soldiers rest, so they can attack at midday, or mayhap at sundown. Yes,” she nodded to herself, “’tis when they struck yesterday, when the darkness would hide them from the city’s archers. They think that with care, Wellmont will not see them until their first volley.”

“But the city knows they are coming,” said Xain. “Jordel has warned them.”

“But the sellswords know it not,” said Loren. “At least, we must hope this is so.”

“Well, these matters may concern the great and wise,” Annis said. “But I am neither. We have reached the road, wizard. Now our ways part.”

“You should keep south of these hills as you travel,” Loren told him. “And stay wary in case they have posted sentries on this side. But I doubt they would, for then Wellmont might spy them. You should be safe until you leave the army behind and can be on your way.”

Xain’s lips were pursed, and he did not immediately answer. Then he slowly shook his head.
 

“I could do that, yes. But it will not solve a greater problem, one that has only just come to me—because now I see its solution. From here, I travel to the High King’s Seat to reclaim my son. But I cannot make that journey on foot. I require a horse.”

“So you might, but that is not our concern,” said Annis, glaring. “The bargain was struck, and our side upheld. Now be on your way and we will be on ours, and may the twain never meet again.”

“You may leave if you wish,” said Xain carefully. “But still I cannot make my journey without a horse. And the men before us have plenty.”

Loren understood his meaning at once. “You cannot think to steal a horse from this army. That is madness. They will find and kill you. You have no gift for stealth nor thievery. And I doubt your magic could withstand their mass, even with every one of our stones.”
 

“I know my limits. But I would wager that the Nightblade could do what I cannot.”

Loren was grateful that Xain could not see her flush in the darkness. Annis glared at the wizard in starlight. “Do not draw us into another one of your schemes, wizard. You are worse than the Mystics, and your words grow madder the more you loose. Loren would never be so foolish. It is too dangerous. Our dealings are done, and not too soon if you ask me, which of course no one does.”

“Too dangerous for Loren? She has accomplished more
and
in worse circumstances. The men sleep. A scant handful patrol the tents. For Loren, such a task would come easily.”

“Not easily, and you know it,” Loren said. “Look. The horses are in the middle of the army, just there. They might not notice my approach, but they could not fail to see me leave. Or will they let a young maid walk out of their midst, one of their steeds in tow?”

But even as she spoke, a plan formed in Loren’s mind. It would be dangerous. But still, she might be able to pull it off. She tried to shed the thought, but details sprang to mind, fitting into her scheme like pieces to a puzzle.

“It is but a thin line of tents that separate the horses from freedom,” Xain pressed. “You could ride out before they knew what had happened and return before sunrise.”

“Loren?” Annis snorted. “She has about as much skill at riding as a burlap sack, mayhap less. And why should she do it, anyway? Your concerns are not ours to solve, nor are we beholden to you.
We
helped
you
escape the city, not the other way around. Indeed, you have brought nothing but death and danger upon us. If not for you, the constables would never have come to my mother’s caravan, and she would never have killed the lot of them. You brought Jordel into our affairs, and we have regretted it since. Without him, we would have had no concern with Vivien, and I would have been happier for it. No, wizard. You draw trouble like honey to flies, and I am sick of your sweet words.”

“Yet without me, you should never have escaped Vivien upon the river. Or Cabrus after your mother decided to hunt the two of you down. And if I had never met Loren . . .”

“I should still be in the Birchwood,” she finished. “I would not wish for that, nor will I deny my gratitude. But still, Xain . . . this . . .”

“A weight on both scales clears the account,” said Xain. “A young woman once told me that in the Birchwood, and I have not forgotten. I failed to see her wisdom then, but it is clearer to me now.”

“Do not think to flatter me.” Again, she flushed in the darkness. “This is too much to ask. You must travel by foot for now. I do not doubt you will find some place in the Greatrocks where some farmer will trade a nag for wizardry.”