Clash (The Arinthian Line Book 4) (17 page)

The rain hammered at him, making loud plonking sounds against his skull and streaming down his face like tears. One foot after the other splashed into the soggy earth as he made his way along the dark and muddy path. It was Lover’s Day and this was not supposed to happen. He and Leera were supposed to have spent the day together in each other’s arms. Even the very idea of losing her made him want to retch.

He stumbled on, wincing from the pain in his back, a result of being slammed into the tree so hard. The battle replayed in his mind. He should have cast Centarro too, or even attempted Summon Minor Elemental. Then he recalled the fizzling sound of Leera’s failed attempt at the spell. No, it would have only cost him time, just as it had Leera …

He didn’t bother stopping by the Okeke home—Mrs. Stone couldn’t be reached anyway and time was supremely precious. The only thing that was important was that he had to get to Harvus before the bastard did something awful to her.

Augum careened past a couple of unaware drunks—two burly miners holding each other by the shoulders and singing the dreamy
Lover’s Lure
. He squinted past the rain, looking for a horse, finally spotting two tied at the front of the Miner’s Mule Inn, and lumbered forth, each step slapping a puddle. People sang
A Farmer’s Daughter and the Heir
from the balcony of the inn. Rain plonked and tinked off table after table of abandoned dishes and empty bottles, the detritus of the evening’s feast, a feast he and Leera should have attended hand-in-hand.

“If I don’t know none better,” said a dark-skinned man in an ale-stained jerkin to a colleague, “I reckon that one there’s a warlock. Look at them robes.” He nodded at Augum’s sodden attire.

“Muddy as a pig,” replied his friend, a scruffy man as short as Harvus. “But why is he untying that there Legion horse?”

Augum didn’t care whose horse it was and, despite whatever injury was plaguing his back, he managed to hoist himself on.

The door opened, allowing a brief glimpse into a packed tavern of rowdy people.

“Augum, what are you doing!” Bridget shouted.

“Harvus has Leera,” he found himself saying, as if in a trance. “He has Leera and I have to go find her and—”

“Just slow down and think for a moment! Let me get the soldiers—”

“There’s no time and they can’t help anyway, they’re not warlocks—” He began turning the horse.

“Damn it, Aug!” It was the first time he had ever heard Bridget swear. It was such a strange thing that Augum did a double take.

She grabbed the saddle. For a moment, he thought she was going to yank him off. Instead, she hoisted herself up and grabbed onto his waist. He immediately kicked the horse into a gallop, exiting Milham to the south, rain attacking his face and hands.

The night was thick, but the road was made visible by the slightest glimmer of a moon from behind dark clouds.

“I sense it too and was wondering if I had it wrong,” Bridget said into his ear, the rain pelting them like small stones. “He’s gone south. But this is madness, Aug, who knows how far he took her. We have to try to reach Mrs. Stone.”

“Haven’t heard from Nana in days, not going to waste more time trying!”

Bridget sighed and drew his hood for him, drawing her own after.

“Stop there,” she said after a while. “Let’s see if we can sense the spell better.”

Augum stopped at a muddy fork surrounded by evergreens. Besides his ramming heart, all he heard was the steady quiet roar of rain falling on a vast forest. His skin and insides felt fire-hot from the battle and from the terror of losing Leera. Nonetheless, he searched for that fragile arcane trail that would get him to her.

Panic rose to his throat. “I sense nothing!”

“You’re too upset, just listen to the ether. Concentrate.”

Augum tried to still his nerves and capture those faint reverberations, but all he could see was that trapped look on Leera’s face as Harvus yanked her up by her hair.

“If he does anything to her, I swear I’ll—”

“Aug! Please, you’re not helping. Let me try the spell.”

He forced himself to sit and wait. Soon the sleeve of Bridget’s blue robe appeared to his left, hand pointing into the rainy night. “That way!”

Augum rode the stallion hard, not caring about the pain in his back, the wet cold seeping into his undergarments, his hollow stomach, or the status of everyone back in Milham. Bridget forced him to stop at every fork so she could concentrate on the spell, saying nothing more about how dangerous and foolish this quest was.

Sometime in the depth of the night, the rain lessened to a drizzle and the clouds parted slightly. There was a horrible peace to it, a peace Augum couldn’t listen to, as it didn’t match up with the frantic thunderstorm in his heart.

They rode half the night, through thick forests, wide valleys, and raging rivers. The horse could barely keep up, gasping and neighing, eventually forcing Augum to slow to a canter lest they tire the animal out completely. They neither rested nor spoke, until Bridget told him to stop beside a lake surrounded by evergreens and an abandoned farm field. Nestled in a clearing past the field, under a clear starry night, was a camp. And at last Augum could clearly feel the pull—Leera was there!

“Slow and easy, Aug, we don’t know what kind of camp this is.”

Augum did not care—he was going to rescue Leera, and no one was going to stop him.

As they rode closer, they could make out a white sack hanging from a post in the middle of the wheat field. As Augum was trying to figure out what it was, Bridget gasped and clenched his waist.

“Stop the horse.”

“What?”

“Just stop the horse!” She pointed at the sack. He squinted and finally understood—it was a Henawa woman, hogtied and hung. Red tendrils hung off her where carrion birds had had a go. For a moment, the pair just gaped. A nauseous bile began rising in his stomach.

“Quietly, to the woods—” Bridget hissed.

Augum directed the horse to the forest, where he tied it under a stubby pine.

Bridget gripped him by the arms. “It’s all right, Aug, we’ll get her, just don’t do anything foolish, all right?”

He could barely hear her beyond the roar of blood rushing through his ears.

“Take a few deep breaths with me.” She breathed deeply, keeping eye contact, still holding his forearms. “In and out, in and out. Good, that’s it. Now, let’s form a plan.”

“A plan, right.” Storm in there and kill them all, he was thinking, recalling Robin slicing Mya’s throat. They had to rescue Leera before that happened, before she too hung on a post in a field …

Bridget placed gentle hands on his cheeks. “Let’s study and watch the camp, all right? We don’t want to do anything rash, do we? Focus.”

He swallowed, feeling his veins buzz.

“Augum? Focus.”

He nodded sharply. “Focus, got it.” He’d focus his First Offensive right through Harvus’ brain.

Bridget’s voice was soft. “Augum.”

He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. She was right. He had to get a grip. He couldn’t risk Bridget or Leera’s lives with brash stupidity. They were alone in the middle of nowhere and there was no rescuing them should things go wrong. In fact, no one had a clue where they were.

“Let’s list all the spells we can successfully cast,” Bridget said calmly. “Shine, Telekinesis, Repair, Unconceal—” He joined in, feeling better with each word, “—Shield, Push, Disarm, Slam, Mind Armor, Object Alarm, Object Track, The First Offensive, Centarro, Fear, Deafness, and Confusion.”

Repeating back the spells with her gave him strength. He was not a bystander here, he could make things happen—just as he
had
made things happen many times before.

“Aug,” Bridget said, looking deep into him with caring eyes, “we
can
do this. No, we
will
do this.” She took one last big breath and gave a firm nod. “Come on.”

Damn right we will, he thought. He felt the stillness of a warrior as they prowled around the stubby trees. Thick in the air was the scent of freshly rained-upon pine. They soon reached a spot at the edge of the forest, from where they could observe the camp. Augum counted twenty tents, a log cabin at one end. Several oxen stood in a pen, along with stacks of hay and a dilapidated chicken coop. A low fire guttered in the center of the camp, with five or six men casually sitting and drinking around it. Most wore hunting attire—loose hide, some Henawa accouterments. The men had tanned bronze skin, dirty faces and hands. No women were present.

Augum closed his eyes and concentrated on the arcane pull of Object Track. It emanated from the cabin, he was sure of it. Bridget sensed it too and led him through the sparse forest, both being as quiet as deer. They heard music as they neared the cabin. Someone inside was playing a lute and singing in a country twang. The cabin’s windows were lit with a warm glow. Traps hung on its exterior.

The pair skulked to an outside window that faced the forest, giving each other a grave glance before edging their faces over the windowsill to peek at the interior. A man with a cleaver in one hand and a half-empty bottle in the other was dancing around a chair. He was tanned bronze and heavily wrinkled, with a grizzled salt-and-pepper beard. Harvus sat in the chair, hands tied behind his back. He was slumped forward and wheezing, blood soaking his cream robe. The dagger and arrow still protruded from his body. His hairpiece sat limply on his head, looking like it had been run over by a cart.

Bridget ducked, both hands on her mouth, eyes as wide as plums.

Augum reached out to her before forcing himself to study the scene. There were three men inside—the crazed dancer with the salt-and-pepper beard, a haggard lute player, and a stick-thin younger man with close-set eyes, wearing a dented Legion breastplate. A bloodstained sickle hung at his belt.

But where was Leera? He strained to look around the cabin but couldn’t locate her, yet the spell told him she was close by.

The man with the cleaver stopped dancing and took a swig. Harvus’ hairpiece fell to the floor, much to the amusement of the others. The man picked it up and tried to arrange it nicely back onto his scalp, eliciting more laughter from his gang.

“All right, you mangy cur,” the man said, “how’s about you tells us where them treasures be.”

Harvus only groaned.

“You done feed him too much of that draught, Sal,” said the skinny young man.

“I done feed him enough. Trouble is he drunk and ‘urt. Makes the brew stronger. But he a witch-man wizard and you best be ready to take off his head with that there sickle if he be dumb enough to do something.”

“I is ready.”

Sal pointed his cleaver, eyes coal black. “You is not. He can turn you into a toad in a dipity-nick of time. Now stand behind ‘im, I says!”

The skinny boy grudgingly paced behind Harvus.

“And boy, you hear one word that sounds like magic, you take that sickle and you carve ‘im a Nodian smile. This witch-man a stone killer, I knows it like I knows the smell of death.”

Harvus moaned.

Sal put his hand to his ear. “What’s that you says? You knows where the treasures be?”

Harvus mumbled something.

Sal raised Harvus’ chin with the cleaver. “Can’t hear you, speak up, piggy.”

“Artifacts … worth gold … to Legion.” Harvus’ voice was very faint, his breath labored. “I can take you—”

Sal slapped Harvus. “I tells you before we ain’t do no tradin’ with the Legion! Look around you, witch-man, half these boys be deserters or runaways. And what else did I say the last time you is come here? Huh? What did I say? We needs to see the loot before we can hand over them gold.” He laughed, looking around at his gang. “Is all wizards this stupid?”

Augum exchanged a look with Bridget. Harvus had been here before!

When the laughter died down, Sal crouched, using his cleaver for balance. He took a pull from the bottle and set it down, grabbing the mangled hairpiece off Harvus’ head. “I can be a witch-man too, you know,” Sal said. He placed the hairpiece on his own scalp and did a little dance while his crew laughed. “Want to see my magic trick? Looksie, I can make this here turd of hair disappear.”

The lute player began a dramatic tune, his hollow eyes dancing in rhythm.

“Want to see it disappear, witch-man?” Sal pressed. “Like them gold you took from us with your tricks the last time you was here?”

Harvus shook his head. “No, I did not—”

“Oh, yes, did you not think we was going to find out about that? Them fake gold coin you done switched for our real coin? You think givin’ us that there girl make things right? You think us dumb as dirt, don’t you, witch-man? Tell you what—” Sal dangled the hairpiece before Harvus. “I can do a magic trick too. Here now, watch it disappear—” and he stuffed it into Harvus’ mouth.

Harvus weakly struggled, eyes rolling around wildly, but Sal gestured and the boy placed a hand over his mouth, preventing Harvus from spitting the hairpiece out.

Sal grabbed his drink and stood up with a snort. “Trade with the Legion. Dumb fool.” He glanced between his roguish cohorts. “You know what me pappy always used to say to me? He say when a witch talks, best to cover your ears lest ye lose ‘em. Heck, they is lyin’ even when they ain’t speakin’.”

Sal pointed his cleaver at Harvus’ pale forehead. “I be a thinkin’ since you last come. Some years back, a witch-wizard done killed the guards. This be in the day when we is poachin’ the caravans, way on down south. Beef done remember better than I.”

The lute player stopped playing. “You think this be the witch-wizard that took all o’ Beef’s gold?”

“Aye, it could be this here vagrant. What you reckon, hand ‘im over to Beef?”

Harvus, voice muffled from the hairpiece in his mouth, shook his head, moaning a denial.

“Kill him, Sal,” said the boy. “I don’t like the look he givin’ you. He going to hex you.”

“You is wanting to hex me, little pig of a witch-man?” Sal tapped Harvus’ big belly with his cleaver. “You tryin’ to hex old Sal, is you?”

“Stick ‘im,” the boy said. “He too dangerous. He want to hex us!”

“No, hand ‘im over to Beef,” the lute player said. “Beef’ll want to have a sharp word first.”