The Nightblade Epic Volume Two: A Book of Underrealm, page 54
The final door opened easily under her hand. Loren stepped through it into the master bedroom. And there she stopped.
A woman stood before her. But it was not Damaris. She wore clothes just as fine as the merchant, and there was something similar in the haughty tilt of her head. Mayhap she was another Yerrin. But Loren had never seen her before.
Loren growled in frustration. “A ruse. Darkness take that woman. She knew we would follow her here, and she set a false trail to lead us to this impostor.” She shook her head and gestured at the woman. “Capture her. She may still have information that can help.”
But the woman did not recoil in fear. Instead she smiled.
And then her eyes glowed black.
“Stop.”
Everyone in the room froze. Loren frowned, her eyes flicking to her friends. They stood rooted in place as though held by some unseen force. Uzo was even in mid-stride, but there he remained.
The woman spoke again. “Kill each other, but leave the Nightblade alive.”
Slowly, Chet, Uzo, and Shiun turned towards each other, raising their weapons.
Loren’s blood ran cold. The woman was a wizard, and she had eaten magestones—the black glow in her eyes said that much. But this was some magic Loren had never seen before, and her mentor, Jordel, had never told her of it.
But her dagger kept her safe. This wizard could not know of the weapon—an ancient tool of the Mystic mage hunters, and proof against all spells. It had saved her life from a mad wizard before, and it kept her from enchantment now.
She drew the dagger and leaped forwards. The Yerrin woman barely had an instant to look surprised before Loren brought the hilt crashing down on her temple. Her eyes rolled back, and she folded like parchment.
Loren whirled. Shiun had eschewed her bow in such close quarters and was attacking Uzo with her sword. Uzo managed to keep her at bay while also trying to strike Chet with his spear, but Chet was defending himself well with his staff—at least for now. Their movements were slow, sluggish, as though they fought to throw off the mental commands they had been given.
“Stop!” she cried. “The woman has no power over you.”
They acted as if they had not heard. The command had been planted, and they would not stop until they carried it out.
Loren leaped and took Chet in a flying tackle. She winced as his head cracked on the wall. Chet cried out, groping gingerly at the back of his head. Slowly his eyes focused on Loren.
“I … what happened?” he said.
“I do not know,” said Loren. “But stop the others!”
She leaped up and dashed at Uzo and Shiun. With Chet out of the way, they had turned their full attention on each other. Loren thrust herself in between both of them.
They both froze, weapons held high. The wizard had commanded them to leave the Nightblade alive, and now they could not attack each other without striking her.
Chet gripped Shiun from behind in a tight hold. Her sword arm dangled, useless. But her other hand came up, scrabbling for Chet’s eyes. She scratched his face, and he grimaced.
“Chet!” said Loren. She lunged, trying to pull Shiun’s hand away.
Uzo took advantage of her distraction to move around her, and slowly his spear came forwards, poking for Shiun’s gut. Then, from outside the room, Loren heard the pounding of footsteps making their way up the stairs.
More guards, she thought. Her heart sank. She and her friends could not fight their way out while two of them were determined to kill each other.
A voice came from outside. “Loren?”
Her pulse skipped. “Gem! In here!”
The boy burst into the bedroom. On his heels were two constables in red leather armor. Both of them huffed and wheezed mightily. It appeared they had run all the way here.
“Uzo and Shiun are enchanted!” she said. “Stop them, but do not hurt them badly!”
With the help of Gem and the constables, she and Chet managed to pry Shiun and Uzo apart. Then Loren remembered how Chet had come out of the enchantment. She went to Uzo and punched him full in the face—not as hard as she could, but hard enough. He recoiled from the blow—and then his eyes cleared. He rubbed at his jaw.
“What … did you hit me?”
Loren sighed with relief. “I did, and you will have to forgive me.”
She went to Shiun, who was still trying to fight off Chet and the other constable. Balling a fist one more time, Loren struck her. Shiun blinked hard as the enchantment passed away.
“You all were gripped by some spell,” said Loren. “It came from the wizard. I have never seen anything like it.”
“Mindwyrd.” Shiun spat on the floor. “A mentalist power, gained by eating magestones. It lets them control the will of others.”
Loren shuddered. “I am glad we rid you of it in time.”
Uzo gave Loren an odd look. “It did not seem to affect you.”
Loren kept her face carefully neutral. Jordel had often warned her against revealing her dagger to anyone. “It must have been a weak enchantment.”
“It was,” said Shiun. “Else we would not have been freed from it so easily. And her magic must have been weakened further by trying to control more than one person at a time.”
Uzo’s curious expression lightened, much to Loren’s relief, and he shook his head. “Sky save us from wizards. We should have brought a mage hunter.”
Loren had nearly forgotten about the constables, but now one of them stepped forwards—a large man with a drooping mustache. As he studied the prone Yerrin woman, confusion made his lips twist and jump, and the mustache shivered like a dying squirrel’s tail.
“I beg your pardon, but what exactly happened here?”
“Everyone in this house is a member of the family Yerrin,” said Loren. “They are criminals under the King’s law, and that one is an abomination.” She pointed at the wizard.
Both constables blinked at Loren before giving each other an odd look.
“An abomination?” said Loren. “An eater of magestones?”
They jumped and took an involuntary step away from the woman.
Loren sighed. “She is harmless now. Blindfold her and bind her before she wakes. That will keep her from being able to use her magic. But do it quickly, and do not remove the blindfold for any reason. Do you have a jail here?”
“I … yes. Yes, my lady, and we will secure them right away.” The large constable motioned to his companion. “Fetch some helping hands from the village, and be quick.”
“I leave it in your capable hands,” said Loren. She beckoned to her friends, leading them down the stairs.
“Capable hands?” said Gem once they were out of earshot. “I do not know that I share your assessment.”
Loren frowned at him as she led them out behind the house. “We will remain here for a moment, at least until all the Yerrins are taken into custody.”
Chet shuddered. “That woman … her magic was terrifying. It was if my body was not my own.”
“Be thankful she was a weak wizard,” said Shiun. “Else it would have taken more than a simple knock on the head to remove her spell.”
Loren pursed her lips. “You know something of this … mindwyrd. Are you a mage hunter, then?”
Shiun shook her head with a wry smile. “No. But in my time in the Mystics, I have met many who are. Some of their secrets are not for others to know, but they loose some of the smaller details from time to time—if you get them drunk enough.”
“I am glad to know it,” said Loren. “There may be more dark wizards ahead in our future.”
“There are too many in our past, if you ask me,” muttered Gem.
Loren looked away from the house, over the snow-covered farmlands that ran to a forest in the south. A long breath escaped through her nose, and her hands formed fists before she managed to relax them.
Chet saw the movement, and he frowned. “Damaris was not here.”
“No,” said Loren. Did he think she did not know that?
“We will find her.”
Loren almost snapped at him, but she restrained herself just in time. “I need a moment.” She began to walk south.
Chet took a half-step forwards. “Where are you going? You should not be alone.”
She glanced back at him. “I will not be long. I need to relieve myself.”
He flushed, but his mouth remained a firm line. “Still, someone should go with you.”
“I will do it,” said Shiun. She slung her bow across her back and went to Loren’s side.
They walked a road between two farms, their breath misting on the frosty air. A light fall of snowflakes danced around them, eddying in the wind of their passing. Snow lay in shallow drifts, and the people here waited for spring’s warmth to welcome new plantings. That would not be long now. The season’s turn was nearly upon them.
Soon they had reached the outskirts of the forest. Loren felt better the moment she stood beneath its boughs. She leaned back against a tree, folding her arms and staring into the far distance. Sidwan was reduced to the size of a candle, the lights of its homes shining in protest against the approaching evening. Loren blew another long sigh, enjoying the way it floated around her like smoke.
The impostor was troubling. How long had they been following a false trail?
Curse the visions from my dreams, she thought.
Her foresight should have come as they rode across Dorsea, giving some clue that they no longer pursued Damaris. Loren could not guess at the purpose of the visions, of course. Mayhap there was no purpose at all. But she needed every bit of help she could get, and if she must wrest that help from dreams and visions, she would. Yet she seemed to have lost even that advantage.
Shiun cleared her throat and turned away. “I will give you some privacy.”
“There is no need. I do not actually have to relieve myself.”
The Mystic’s eyes sparkled. “That was obvious, but I thought I might help you keep up the pretense.”
Loren’s mood did not lighten. She only frowned harder and scuffed her boot in the snow.
“I thought we had her this time. Now she has slipped away, and who knows if we will find the trail again?”
“We could not have done anything different than we did.”
Shiun’s tone was less reassuring than her words. She sounded irritated. Loren glared at the ground. No doubt Shiun blamed Loren for losing the merchant. And why should she not? Loren was in charge. Yet this whole expedition seemed to have become a flight from one disaster to another. Jormund had left them some time ago—albeit at Loren’s orders—and two other members of their company were dead. Worse, one of them had turned out to be an enemy in disguise. Loren should have known. Should have seen. Even without her visions.
“I will not rest until it is done. Until Damaris is in our hands and the hands of the King’s law, and order is restored to the nine kingdoms.”
Shiun was silent for a long moment. “That would be a great feat,” she said at last.
Loren flushed. She had spoken like a silly girl. When had Underrealm ever been a place of perfect order? Border squabbles raged and bandit squadrons roamed, creating a thousand conflicts great and small, and each led to bloodshed in the end. Yet they faced a far greater threat now—a war that might lay whole kingdoms low. Loren had not started it, but she had taken a solemn vow to help finish it.
But she did not say any of this to Shiun. “I suppose we have wasted enough time for them to think I did my business,” she muttered. “Let us return.”
She pushed off from the tree and strode north, Shiun at her side.
THE DREAM TOOK HER.
SHE stood on the High King’s Seat. Both moons hung full in the sky above her. The streets looked familiar, but she could not place them. Then she recognized the main road that crossed the city from east to west. She had passed this way when …
Again she looked up at the moons. Yes. It was the night she had followed a wizard’s trail across the Seat. She had found a lock of hair and burned it on her dagger. Its magic led her east, but she had found nothing there. Dejected, she had returned to the palace—but not before visiting a tavern.
She whirled. There was the tavern. A warm glow poured from the edges of its door, which was poorly mounted in the frame.
But now a man leaned on the door. He was tall, his shoulders broad. Many knife scars crossed his arms and face, and even his nearly-shaved head. He was clad all in black leathers, making it hard to see most of his body in the darkness. But his eyes were bright even at night. The glow was akin to magelight, yet Loren had never seen anything quite like it.
Before she could ask who he was, he laughed and pointed to her left. Loren caught a flash of movement at the edge of her vision. She turned and saw a woman in a red cloak. Her brown hair was cut short in a bob, and her sleeveless shirt and vest showed her thick, muscular arms.
Niya.
Rage filled Loren, a rage more terrible than she had ever felt while awake. She launched herself after Niya, who ducked into an alley. Loren plunged into the darkness, pulling a magestone from her cloak and eating it to gain night vision.
Auntie stood there, no longer disguised as Niya. Her clothes had changed as well. Now she wore black robes in a style that looked somehow familiar. Yet it was Auntie’s thin, svelte form, her smooth brown skin and dyed blonde hair. And her eyes, which Loren knew she could never forget.
“You!” cried Loren. “You live!”
Auntie frowned at her. There was no recognition in her expression, no anger—only confusion.
“Who are you?” she said.
Loren screamed in rage. If the witch thought to escape by deception, she would find that a folly.
Loren raised her dagger and leaped. Darkness take her vow not to kill. Auntie had died already, but Loren would kill her again in her dreams. She would do it a thousand times, and relish each kiss of the dagger.
Auntie cried out in fear. She raised a hand, and her eyes glowed.
Loren froze in midair, held in place by mindmagic.
But … but that was impossible. Auntie was a weremage, not a mindmage. A wizard could only command one branch of magic.
Just as Loren was about to scream her frustration, Auntie vanished. The magic released her, and Loren fell hard to the ground. A hand took her shoulder, and she almost recoiled—but the hand was gentle, and it raised her up.
Before her stood a young woman of surpassing beauty, mayhap a few years older than Loren. But this woman had none of the raw, animal seduction of Auntie. Hers was a softer, gentler grace, a promise of great love and great kindness. She was clad in wispy, silky blue. Loren wondered how the winter air did not freeze her to the bone.
But it is not winter, she realized suddenly. She had visited the Seat in early autumn.
Recognition crashed in upon her. She had seen the woman before. Not in true life, but in another dream. Loren had seen her in a house of lovers, and she had wept for a man Loren did not know. But now she did not weep. She only gave Loren a sad smile.
“That was not the one you fear,” said the woman. “The one you fear is dead. You must remember that when you see her.”
“When I—what?” said Loren.
The woman smiled and leaned forwards to kiss Loren’s cheek. Her sweet and pungent scent penetrated the air, and Loren’s heart went skipping.
“You shall have such a hard time after he goes,” said the woman. “But you will carry on. Because you must.”
“Please,” said Loren. “Please, tell me what you mean. I do not understand.”
“That boy Chet,” said a voice behind her—a voice she knew. “He will leave, you know.”
Loren whirled as she shot to her feet. Her surroundings shifted, and now she shivered in bitingly cold wind atop a mountain. Snow covered the landscape in all directions. Loren’s stomach lurched as she tried to place herself.
She was in the Greatrocks. The knowledge came crashing upon her, the way it does in dreams. Her peak overlooked a mountain pass. They had taken such a pass through the mountains only a few weeks ago, chasing Damaris into Dorsea. She studied the mountains, trying to find something familiar, but she could see nothing.
And then, there was Mag.
The woman stood in the snow, wind gusting around her. She wore a shirt of chain with thick, fur-lined leather beneath it. Fresh blood covered a mighty spear in her right hand, and a battered shield hung on her left arm. A mournful expression pulled at her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. She stooped, seemingly weary beyond reckoning—nothing like the proud barmaid Loren remembered from Northwood. Where she and Albern had sacrificed themselves so that Loren might live.
Loren fell to her knees. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden.
“Mag,” she whispered. “Mag, is it really you?”
“I cannot come with you,” said Mag. Her eyes, too, glistened with tears. She sank to the ground and seized Loren’s shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. “Darkness take me, Loren, I cannot come with you. And I cannot tell him.”
I cannot tell him. The lover in blue had once spoken the same words. Did they speak of the same man? Who was he?
“Who, Mag?” said Loren. “Please, tell me.”
Mag only tossed her head, indicating something over Loren’s shoulder. Loren turned to look.
There stood the man in black, the one she had just seen outside the tavern on the Seat. Now he leaned against a different building. It looked like a smithy. The sound of ringing hammers came from within, and smoke poured from its chimney. Its door was plain wood, but above it hung a blue sign with a yellow hammer.
What was a smithy doing in the mountains?
“Your boy,” said the man.
“My … boy?” said Loren. Then she realized he might have answered her question. “Do you mean Chet? Is that who you all keep speaking of? Mag, what do you wish to tell Chet?”
She turned. Mag was gone. Only the dark man remained.
“Your boy,” said the man again. He gave a leering smile. “He is leaving—but then, you have known that for some time.”
Grief coursed through her. “You are lying,” she said, striding towards the man in black. “You know nothing of Chet. Or of me.”
