The Summoner (20 page)

One of the bandits was riding right for Tris, his foam‐flecked horse wild with battle. Struggling to keep his wits about him, Tris ducked under the rider’s swing and parried as the horse nearly rode him down. The attacker wheeled and charged again. This time, Tris stood his ground, dropping low and scything his sword along the grass to catch the rider’s mount.

The screaming horse flailed to the ground, throwing its rider clear. With a sword’s stroke, Tris dispatched the hapless beast, then closed on his rider as the bandit climbed to his feet, eyes dark with rage. With a cry and upraised sword, he ran at Tris. The prince lunged, slipping inside the man’s guard and sinking his weapon deep into the man’s chest. The bandit gasped and fell to his knees, clutching his chest. His eyes widened as he cursed in surprise and then, blood flowing from between his fingers, fell over dead.

Tris felt a sudden, disorienting lurch as if he had been slammed hard from behind. He shook his head to clear it, and stared at the dying bandit. As he watched, the man’s form shifted, and two identical bodies lay one on top the other. The second form grew more and more transparent, then rose, barely visible, and fixed Tris with a sad and knowing gaze before fading into the air completely. Before Tris could shake the image from his mind, he heard the rush of hoofbeats behind him and a sharp, heavy thump on the side of his head sent him reeling, then turned the 165

world to black.

When he came around, the situation did not look good. The bandits fought like men possessed.

Vahanian waded grimly into the battle, cursing as he swung his sword. Being on horseback gave the bandits an edge they did not deserve, and made the raid doubly costly for the caravaners.

Watching Vahanian and Harrtuck, Tris knew their first priority was to take down as many of the bandits’ mounts as possible. As Tris

staggered to his feet, his head pounding, steel clashed and axes swung as the caravaners held their ground. The clamor of the spirits around him threatened to crowd all reason from Tris’s mind, and he murmured a warding spell Bava K’aa had taught him. It did not silence the spirits, but it pushed them just far enough from his thoughts to make action possible.

Tris could see that Vahanian’s opponent was fixed on reaching the centre of the battle, and worse, the bandit was damnably skilled with his weapon. Flames rose at the centre of the battle, diverting at least half of the caravaners from defense as they ran to save the tents and wagons.

A glance told Tris that the bandits chose their targets well, setting ablaze the tents and wagons least likely to contain booty. He reclaimed his fallen sword and headed toward the action.

To his right, Tris could see the old grannywitch swinging an axe with two‐handed determination.

Wild‐eyed, with her gnarled hands white‐knuckled on the axe’s handle, her lips moved in arcane verse as she kept her opponent at bay. Suddenly, the bandit dropped his sword as if stung, and the pommel of the weapon glowed red hot. The bent old crone seized the opening her spell made to swing her axe without remorse.

Tris headed for the battle at a run, resolutely ignoring his pounding head and the revenants rising from the newly dead on the battlefield. Carroway joined him halfway across the open area, appearing from the smoke that shrouded the burning camp. “Look there!” Tris said, pointing.

The shell of the house Carina had converted into a makeshift hospital attracted the attention of one of the brigands, who was single‐mindedly attempting to enter. Carina, armed only with a 166

long stave, barred the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris saw Vahanian dispatch his opponent and head for the healer’s shelter at a dead run.

“Maybe I can help,” Carroway muttered, digging into the pouches at his belt for one of the pellets he used in his storytelling. A flare of green light startled the bandit, giving Vahanian an opening. As Vahanian cut down the bandit, Tris looked up to see another streak of green light rise in a flare from the minstrel’s hand.

“Parlor tricks,” Carroway said with a wicked grin. His right hand twitched and a blade flew, dispatching one of the bandits as it stuck neatly between his shoulder blades. The bard’s tunic was soot streaked and bloodstained. Carroway ran over to the fallen bandit and matter‐of‐factly retrieved his blade. Tris staggered, feeling the sundered spirits wrench free of their dying flesh.

Lady save me, there are so many! he thought, struggling to renew the warding that offered some protection for his sanity.

Carina was still engaged grimly in protecting the patients in her sickroom as another bandit charged. The bandit slashed at her and Carina parried his blows with the stave, but it was obvious that she was tiring.

“You don’t get in without the price of admission,” Vahanian called to the bandit from behind and the brigand turned.

“And what might that be?” the bandit sneered, his blade raised.

“You’ve got to need a healer,” Vahanian returned, swinging his blade hard. He cut through the bandit’s parry as Carina swung her stave, full force, at the bandit’s knees. Cleaved shoulder to hip by Vahanian’s blade, the brigand fell to the ground just as Tris and Carroway arrived, swords raised. Tris stumbled at the jarring impact he felt in his mage senses, caused by the bandit’s swift death, and he clung to the warding with all of his waning might.

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“That was a fair defense you put up,” Vahanian said to Carina. Carina was breathing hard and her tunic cfung sweat‐soaked to her form. Her short, dark hair hung in her eyes and as she pushed it back, her hand trembled. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, although her words sounded more certain than her tone.

Footsteps from behind gave him no time to argue, and as Vahanian turned to meet his next opponent, Carina retrieved her stave and withdrew into the shadows of the ruined building. Tris took up a guard post outside.

A crash like thunder sounded behind Tris. One of the main caravan tent posts snapped and fell across the roof to the makeshift hospital, dragging the burning tent with it. He wheeled in time to see the blazing tent set the roof of the healer’s shack afire.

“The roof’s on fire!” Tris shouted above the fray.

Vahanian and Soterius were close enough to hear. “Leave the bandits, come with me,” Vahanian shouted to Soterius as Tris covered his face with his tunic and ducked inside.

The sagging canvas of the ruined tent crackled with flames. Fire spread quickly to the dilapidated thatch of the building’s roof, and smoke billowed from its doorway. As Tris fought his way through the smoke, Carina was already dragging one man from the burning building, though it took all her might to move his heavy body. Although the smoke made his aching head even worse, Tris helped Carina drag the man to safety.

Vahanian and Soterius pounded up as Tris and Carina reached the open air, and Vahanian caught Carina’s shoulders as she turned back toward the burning building.

“Stay out here,” he shouted. “We’ll get the rest.”

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“My patients, my risk,” Carina snapped back, shaking free. “There are still more in there.” Before any of them could stop her, Carina shouldered past and headed at a dead run back for the smoking building. Soterius charged through the doorway, only to retreat gasping for breath.

Ripping the cloak from the injured man, Vahanian plunged the cloth into a nearby bucket and ran with the soaked rags to the doorway.

“Here, use this,” Vahanian said, as he the tore the sopping cloth in broad strips. Tris and Soterius snatched them from his hands.

“We’re only going to get one chance,” Soterius said, muffled through the rag.

“Let’s go,” Tris agreed, pressing the soaking cloth against his face.

The three men charged into the smoke together then dropped to their knees, nearly blinded.

Soterius crawled toward the back corner, where the outline of a patient was barely visible. Not far inside the opening, Vahanian’s hand connected with a pant leg. Tris saw Vahanian feel for the man’s shoulders and heft the injured man onto his back. Gasping for breath, his eyes stinging with the smoke, Vahanian crawled as fast as he could, trying to balance the helpless man.

Heaving his burden just beyond the doorway, Vahanian turned back into the smoke as Tris crawled on, and in the near darkness, he could see Carina struggling with her patient. A crack like thunder sounded overhead, and Tris turned in horror.

“Carina!” Vahanian shouted, diving toward the healer as the beam above Carina’s head gave way in a shower of sparks. Tris saw the beam begin to break, felt Carina’s shock and terror, and reacted as power and fear filled him.

“No!” The rasped command tore from his throat as Tris struggled to his knees, one hand outstretched toward the beam. Tris felt his power rise, felt it strike from his hand to throw the beam aside.

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“Run!” Vahanian panted as he pushed Carina toward the doorway, dragging the last patient toward the door. Tris started toward them and fell forward, gasping for breath in the searing heat. Just as Tris felt the world around him begin to darken, strong hands gripped his shoulders and half carried, half‐dragged him, pulling him out onto the grass. Behind him, the building’s timbers groaned like a dying man, and then collapsed with a burst of flame and sparks.

Someone pitched a bucket of water onto him. Slowly, Tris roused, his lungs aching, hacking and gasping. He was dimly aware of the burns on his arms and calves. He struggled to see, blinded by the ash and smoke.

The hospital building lay in ruins, burning fast. Along the perimeter of the camp, the screams of horses and the clash of blades rang in the night air. But the fight was further away, no longer in the heart of the camp, and as Tris gasped for breath, he saw Vahanian nod.

“They’ve pushed the bandits back. Good thing. I can’t breathe, let alone fight,” Vahanian rasped.

At Tris’s elbow, the old grannywitch emerged from the smoke bearing a rough‐hewn cup. “Drink this,” she said, pressing a mug into his hands. Tris drank it gratefully, feeling the liquid burn down his raw throat. Whatever the potion was, it began to work immediately, clearing his head and fortifying him enough to stand.

Carina dragged herself to her knees and bent over one of the patients they had pulled from the burning building. She hammered on his chest with all her strength. “By the Lady, breathe, damn it, breathe!” she sobbed.

Vahanian made his way over to where she knelt. “Carina—”

“He was breathing fine just before the fire,” Carina argued with no one in particular. Her soot-covered robes were scorched and her arms were dotted with burns from falling embers. Tears streaked through the ashes on her face, and her hair fell limply into her eyes as she bent across 170

her charge. “Breathe, dammit!”

Vahanian reached down to take her by the shoulders, but she struggled free. “No!” she cried, reaching toward her patient. “I have to help him.”

“He’s gone,” Vahanian said gently. “Look at him. It’s too late.”

Carina sat back on her haunches and buried her face in her hands. “It’s not your fault,” Vahanian said quietly. “Look at where his wound was, right through his ribs. Would have been hard for him to breathe anyway, even with healing, but then the smoke…”

She lifted her head enough to glare at him. “You don’t understand what it is to lose a patient.”

“No,” he conceded quietly. “Just soldiers under my command.”

“You must have the eye of the Lady on you, to have made it out alive,” the grannywitch observed, taking the cup from Tris. She filled it once more and offered it to Soterius, who accepted it gratefully. Tris could see the burns that peppered Soterius’s arms and face, and imagined he was in no better shape himself.

“Thanks for dragging me out of there,” Tris said.

Soterius looked at him for a moment without saying anything, and Tris knew his friend saw him use magic to hurl aside the beam. “Glad to do it,” Soterius said, and while his tone was sincere, he looked away. He doesn’t know what to think of me any more, Tris thought, still feeling the witch’s potion burning in his throat. He never bargained to be liegeman to a mage.

The old crone took back the cup and offered it to Vahanian, who waved it away, gesturing for 171

her to attend to Carina. The crone knelt beside Carina and took her in her arms, letting the healer sob against her shoulder like a brokenhearted child.

Vahanian was looking at Tris. Ashen and shaking, Tris met his eyes. They both knew the beam had changed its course at Tris’s command. He hates magic even more than Soterius does, Tris thought at the look in Vahanian’s eyes. His outlaw prince is an untrained mageling. One more thing to worry about.

“If you’d have taken my advice, none of this would have happened,” a voice cut caustically through the smoke. Tris looked up to see Kaine dogging Maynard Linton as the caravan master picked his way through the ruins.

“Where’s the healer?” Kaine demanded, stopping where they rested. “I’ve been wounded.”

“The lady’s busy. Go away,” Vahanian said, interposing himself between Kaine and Carina.

Kaine moved to shoulder past him. “She’s a healer, let her heal,” Kaine snapped. This time, Vahanian’s blade blocked Kaine’s path.

“I said, the lady’s busy,” Vahanian rasped. He looked as if he were beginning to feel the day’s battle in every aching muscle and was considering taking it out on Kaine. “Go away.”

“You’re a fine protector, Jonmarc Vahanian,” Kaine shot back. “Like as not ‘twas bandit friends of yours what did this,” Kaine sneered, but he backed up a step from the glinting blade. “I told Linton that taking you on would mean trouble. None of this would have happened if we hadn’t taken on your thieving hide.”

Vahanian took a step toward Kaine, his blade raised higher. “I still have the strength to run you 172

through, Kaine, and I’ll do it if you’re here by the time I count to five. One…”

“See what I mean?” Kaine whined, taking another step back. “Cut me down in cold blood, he would—”

“Two…” Vahanian growled, advancing.

“I’ve no desire to be run through, Vahanian,” Kaine retorted, licking the blood from his split lip.