Villains by Necessity (51 page)

"Argh, you do have a point with that," grumped Arcie. "Well enough. To yon bloody barbarian village it are then ... and we'll surely all be killed."

Sam shrugged. "They're good people ... we come seeking healing. Maybe it's a good act to heal, even if it's healing evil people."

"Not for the likes of us, I doubt," muttered Arcie, as Sam and the knight began carefully moving Valerie's unconscious form onto Sam's cloak to use as a stretcher.

"Blast and bother! This were my best suit, you know, almost mine own armor, and 'tis all ruined, with me skin's all a-blistered, my hair singed unrecognizable ..." He paused. "Sam? What are that under your tunic, there?" he asked, puzzled out of his self pity. The assassin glanced down at a large rip in his newly repaired tunic. A broken chunk of white showed. He tsked, and wrapped his scarf around it, covering a bleeding gash. His assassin training was still so strong he scarcely noticed even the fiercest of pain. He had been trained from the earliest age to ignore pain, for one stifled cry could be enough to give one's position away.

"It's just a rib, Arcie. Let's move out. Get up, centaur, and help us carry the sorceress."

They balanced the crumpled form of Valerie on the centaur's back, with Sam and Blackmail on either side to prevent her from falling off, and Arcie hastening ahead to choose the most level ground and scan for danger.

"After this," said the assassin, as they walked along, "we'll have to go after that dragon."

Arcie turned around to stare at him. "Have ye lost what small mind ye had, Sam? Yon great muckle lizard near killed us!"

Sam sighed. He had his own reasons for wanting to rescue Kaylana, if she still lived... but once again he was going to have to convince the rest of the party.

Robin flicked his ears. "The Barigan's right. We haven't any idea where it's gone, we don't know if Kaylana's alive anyway, and that dragon will surely slay us all if we encounter it again."

Blackmail, however, looked in the direction the dragon had gone and raised his mailed fist silently, then looked at Sam, who managed a weak smile. His rib was starting to hurt, now that the shock of adrenaline was wearing off... There were still limits to assassin stoicism.

"You're all for it, huh? Want to fight the dragon?" he asked. The helmet nodded determinedly. "Thanks, then.

But I think we all have to go." "'Tis suicide, laddie," insisted Arcie.

"It's suicide if we don't. We're hurt pretty bad now, and we have to go to a bunch of barbarians who probably won't be too pleased to see us anyway. If we survive this, what happens when we get hurt again? Who's healed us, time and time again, as well as being more than a little handy with magic?" retorted Sam. "She's our survival insurance.

Maybe heroes can die trying, but I'm an assassin, and I like living."

Arcie sighed. "Fah! As you will ... you win again.

We'll be going to rescue the lassie."

"They won't bother to rescue her, of course," commented Fenwick. He had just received a report from Towser, who had been in magical contact with Lumathix and reported the Druid captured safely and the rest of the party severely injured. "They are evil, who care nothing for their comrades, and will fear to face the dragon. And thus will have to continue on across the Plains as best they can. Which of course will lead them right into the middle of my Company and Lord Tasmene's men, two groups to close like the jaws of a trap ... the centaur will break and run for it, and we shall scatter the bodies of those villains into bloody fragments strewn about the Plains." Fenwick took out his silver-etched longsword, the magical blade Truelight, Slayer of Darkness, and tested the edge with his thumb. The hilt pulsed in his hand as he thought of cleaving into the forces of darkness with its edge that could break any magical armor, through any spell. "Mindless overkill, some might say ... but I have already lost too much to these renegades. I will run no risks. Besides, the Company need the exercise."

He smiled and sheathed the blade as he stood and went to saddle his warhorse.

They reached the edge of the camp shortly after noon and found it to be settled around a small river. The tall grass provided a good cover as they watched the barbarians below and debated what to do.

"I'm fair exhausted," whispered Arcie. "Why don't this sort of thing not happen in the night, as we're awake?"

"There's no time," hissed Sam. "How's Valerie?"

Blackmail put his helmet close to the sorceress's pale face, then made a gesture with his gauntlet, palm down, shaken slightly. Sam translated-"Not good."

"I can see their temple," spoke up Robin. "There, in the center-that well or pool or something, with the carved stones about it, just like in the other camp, but smaller. One of the many founded by Ki'kartha the Heroine, after her marriage to the tribesman Sungrass and the recovery of the artifact of Mula, the Waterstone."

The others looked at him in surprise, and he added, "Like in the"Canticle of the Water Lily.' I know all the verses." "'Ware!" hissed Arcie suddenly. "They're at bringing some fellow to yon pool!"

The others looked and saw the turquoise-robed clerics of the temple escorting a brawny barbarian man into the open-air sanctuary. He held his arm awkwardly, wrapped in bloody bandages-perhaps injured in a hunt.

While the silent villains watched from their hillside hideout, one of the priestesses, with much ceremony, dipped a silver ladle into the small pale blue pool, raised it over the man's head a moment, then poured it on his arm. A brief blue shimmer seemed to engulf the wounded limb, then the fellow took off his bandage and flexed his perfectly healed arm. There were appropriate praises to the goddess, and the man strode out again.

"It looks like that water is the stuff we need, then," murmured Sam, wincing slightly; this hunkering in the grass wasn't doing his broken rib a bit of good. He'd probably be dead in a few days from blood loss and infection.

But that was for later. "We'll have to get some."

"I don't think they'll just let us have it," said Robin.

"We know these folk are very suspicious of outsiders and, being proud of their heritage, would likely consider it their heroic duty to kill us on sight."

"We'll have to steal some, then," decided Sam. Arcie stood up, and tipped what was left of his hat.

"Ye can leave that one to me," he said, with a broad grin.

The thief set off down the hillside, silent and unseen as only a thief can be. The others watched from the hill.

"He's crazy," muttered Sam after a bit. "That whole pool is in full view, even from here, and there's priestesses everywhere. Even if he was completely magically invisi ble, they'd see his shadow."

"Should we go after him?" asked Robin nervously.

Sam shook his head.

"He's crazy, but he must know what he's up to. I don't want to mess up whatever he has in mind."

Arcie stealthily made his way down to the barbarian encampment. This was tricky, of course; he was quite ob viously not a barbarian, not even a young one. Barbari ans and Barigans were not on very good terms; and Arcie was still sore from being used as a catty-ball by the Plainsmen in the west. In the past he'd also had a few tankards placed over his head in bars by visiting barbari ans of all kinds.

Considering his experiences Arcie can be pardoned for what he did next. He crept carefully to the edge of the sanctuary, hiding under a flap of a tent, and took out his sling. Then from another pouch he extracted the small, red-gold crystal he'd stolen from one of Fenwick's men.

The man had said it was a fire-crystal, capable of creating some sort of magical blast; Arcie had heard of such things and seen a few in his time; it would have been nice to ask the man if he knew where to get any more, but at the time, the man was not in a position to tell anyone anything. That was one of the troubles with traveling with inherently violent people, he mused. The fire-crystal had been wrapped well in padding cotton, so Arcie thought it must be fairly fragile.

Fitting the crystal into his sling, he glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then lobbed it as high and far as he could, sending it tumbling silently into one of the largest clusters of tents, the one with the distinctive shape and guards of a storehouse for Barigan whiskey.

Sam, Blackmail, and Robin on their hill had a splendid view of a sudden huge ball of fire that erupted from a corner of the camp, with a deafening double-explosion and a gout of black smoke and crimson flame. Shouts rang out, barbarians ran with their fur garments aflame. Arcie had learned well what sort of tactics worked with the Plainsmen who scorned metal. The priestesses in the open temple reacted in shock, then quickly scooped up dippers of the water and ran to the scene of the holocaust to heal the injured. The instant they had all vanished, a small quick figure scampered into the enclosure, waved up at them, and knelt at the pool, filling a pair of waterskins.

"I told you he was crazy," said Sam. Robin nodded, ears flicking.

Arcie filled the last waterskin, noticing as he did so that the dragonfire burns on his hands cooled and healed instantly when the water splashed on them. He quickly plugged the waterskins and hastened back out of the temple.

The camp was in chaos. As he ran, he splashed himself with some of the water, redoubling his speed as his wounds healed.

At last a winded but healthy Barigan tumbled into the grassy hiding place of the four companions. He handed Sam one of the waterskins and tucked the other one into his belt. The assassin unstoppered the skin, splashed a bit on himself, then, scolded by the raven, quickly poured a heavy dose over Valerie's broken body. The water tingled on his skin, and he felt his wound closing, his broken rib moving painlessly back into place and knitting. Despite his loyalty to the Druid, he had to admit that the power of the healing deity was far more impressive than her slower, herbal formulas. A faint blue mist covered both him and Valerie and then vanished; he looked up.

"Robin? Blackmail? Either of you hurt?" The two shook their heads, Robin still watching the flames in shock.

"You blew up their tents," he said after a moment.

"And they hadn't even done anything to you!"

"Aye, but they would have," Arcie replied, with a wink. Valerie stirred and sat up in a faint cloud of soot that sent her coughing.

"Where am I?" she gasped. The raven flew with relieved clucks and alighted on her shoulder. She ran a hand through her scorched dark hair, and a large swath of it fell away, leaving her with ragged-cropped locks.

She stared at the chunk in horror.

"Outside another barbarian encampment," replied Sam tersely. "And if you're feeling all right now, I think we'd better get moving."

Valerie looked down at the milling campsite. "You never said a truer word, assassin."

"I try," he replied modestly. "Let's go ... toward the sea."

They hurried away from the smoke and screams of the camp and fled across the fields.

When they had come as far as they felt was necessary, they fell exhausted onto the turf. "Rest!" croaked Arcie.

"Them mighty feats of daring takes a powerful lot out of a fellow."

"Agreed," said Valerie. "I think it would be best if we slept for a few hours, then continued on in the evening."

"We're going to go get the Druid before we go on," informed Robin, rummaging in his pack for something to eat. Valerie looked like she might argue, but then nodded.

"All right. Blackmail, would you take watch?" she asked. The knight nodded his helm and sat back in the grass, watching the fields and sky as the others rested.

At last evening fell. Valerie looked up at the pale sky and at the moon. "We'll have to hurry," she said nervously.

"There isn't a whole lot of time left."

"And where might we be heading?" asked Arcie, looking into the distance at the dark shadow of the sea.

"There are a whole range of plains, and, if we follow the beast on to Ein, a haystack of mountains to find a dragon-needle in. Where might we begin to seek?"

"I'll have to work on that," said Valerie with a sigh. "I doubt we'll find the dragon on Sei'cks, there is no cover for it. Dragons like cover. It will have flown on to Ein; there are a lot of places for a dragon to go in that foul land. I shall have to use magic."

"Magic? How?" asked Robin. All he'd seen of Valerie's power had been various blasts of death and destruction, and he was beginning to wonder if she could do any other sort of magic.

"There are various scrying spells, seeking spells ... I only hope the wench is smart enough or hurt enough that she is unable to use her concealment powers."

"Seems to me that yon great lizard took care that the lassie was unharmed," commented Arcie. "As though she were wanted live." Blackmail nodded in silent agreement.

"She'd better not be hurt, or-" began Sam angrily, but Valerie shushed him.

"There is no time for your romantic heroics, assassin fool. Find me water, preferably old, rank, muddy stale stuff; this magic healing water is useless."

After some clumsy searching in the darkness, a suitable puddle was located, and Valerie filled her silver eating bowl with the brackish water. She then pulled her hood over her face, and knelt in the deepest shadow of a small hill.

"One unfortunate side effect of this spell is it may draw the attention of any other people scrying in the same general area ... but without the Druid's magic to cover our presence, we show up like coals in the snow as it is.

My own concealing magic, dark as it is, is worse than nothing in this Light world. So, be on your guard, and if any mages come teleporting in, I trust you to kill them."

She then clasped her hand, with broken fingernails, around the midnight oval of her Darkportal, and gently touched the surface of the water in the bowl with her other hand. She shifted the bowl slightly, and seemed to fall into a deep trace, as the others exchanged nervous glances and took up watchful positions. Nightshade sat on his mistress's shoulder and watched everyone with a beady eye, hissing if they came too close. The air around Valerie tingled slightly, as she softly whispered words of power in the language of Nathauan magic. It was a sound like snakes slowly moving over gravel.