Mystic: A Book of Underrealm (3 page)

“They may have yet,” said Jordel. “We do not know whom these men serve, and I would wager that like as not, they owe no allegiance to Selvan.”

“What is it?” Gem tried to wriggle up between them. Loren shoved him back.

“I must get closer,” murmured Jordel. “If I could but speak with one of them . . .”

Gem had moved to Loren’s other side, undaunted, and now sidled up behind her like a worm. He gave a low whistle between his teeth and whispered, “An army proper, and no mistake. One more sight I never saw in Cabrus.”

“We could approach a sentry,” Loren suggested.

“Approach a sentry without identifying yourself, and you beg for the arrow they will plant in your brain.” Jordel shook his head. “No, I must enter the camp.”

“Enter the camp?” Gem squeaked. “Filled with soldiers? Who may want to kill you?”

“I have faced greater dangers before,” said Jordel. “Men do not often look for danger among their own.”

“And I look for danger not at all,” said Gem. “I will see you back at the carriage.” He turned to scamper down the hillside.
 

Loren whirled to him. “Do not run off by yourself, you fool!”

“I run alone towards safety. You go accompanied toward peril. Who is the fool?”

He did not slow his pace, and soon he had disappeared behind the next crest. Loren growled.

“Let him be,” said Jordel. “He is right, and will be safer at Seth’s side.”

“Not when I get hold of him,” Loren muttered. “He needs a stern lesson in following orders.”

Jordel chuckled. “I shall leave such lessons to you. Now, let us approach the camp.”

Loren drew back. “You mean for me to come with you?”

“Unless you would wait here. But you have a witty tongue, and quick words might serve well to lower their guard.”

Loren felt tiny pinpricks of pleasure. “Very well. ’Tis a pleasure to deal with one who prefers a ready word to a steady sword.”

“Come, then. Walk as I do, and try to look as though you belong. And do not reveal your dagger. I wish now that you had left it at the carriage. Come!”

Many small bushes and trees lay between them and the sentries, a line of men clearly visible halfway to the army. Each man was tall and grim, carrying longbows of yew with many arrows. Jordel led her from cover to cover, but still Loren felt exposed.

She was surprised to see how easily the Mystic moved. His feet fell soft and quietly as hers, and he melted into the terrain like a woodsman. Loren realized suddenly that she knew little about this man, the lands of his birth, or how he was raised. Perhaps he, too, had grown up in a forest. The thought held a curious appeal, and Loren resolved to ask him once they were safely back at camp.

Soon, they neared the sentry line where Jordel stopped. They hid behind a cleft in two hills where a tumble of rocks gave them succor to peek out and see. But sentries ranged across a line of unbroken ground, with no chance to slip by undetected. Always, they kept their eyes turned outward. Jordel studied them for a long time while Loren tried to imagine what he was seeing.

“They are most watchful,” said Loren.

“They are. What do you think that means?”

Loren thought, surprised by the question. Mayhap it was a test.
 

“If they are watchful, they fear an attack.” Her thoughts moved slowly, gaining speed as pieces assembled. “And here in Selvan, the most likely assault would come from the King’s army. If they fear a strike from Selvan, then Selvan did not hire them.”

“Good, good,” murmured Jordel. “Who, then?”

“If they came from the east, as it would seem from their march, they could be from Wadeland. But this far south, I would wager they swear to Dorsea.”

“What else? Which direction do they travel? And why?”

Loren’s smile turned to a frown. “West and somewhat south. They do not move for the capital or the great cities, then. What lies west of here?”

“Precious little until one finds Wellmont at the southern foot of the Greatrocks. But if they were to turn south now, they would come upon Redbrook where the King’s road meets the Dragon’s Tail river. That would be my guess, though it is an ill thought.”

Loren’s head spun at the names of so many unfamiliar things. “I do not understand. I have never heard of these places. Are they important?”

“More important than you could guess, but now is not the time for a lesson in politics or history. Suffice to say that it is now more urgent than ever that we find this army’s purpose.”

“But how can we slip between them? Knowing their allegiance will not turn us invisible.”

“Agreed.” Jordel sighed. “What I would not give for a wizard’s distraction. I had hoped to walk among them without bloodshed.”

Loren felt a chill and turned to Jordel with a frown. “Bloodshed? You do not mean to kill them.”

He turned to meet her with a steady gaze. She felt suddenly uncomfortable before his light blue eyes.
 

The Mystic spoke in a voice of deep calm and not of wrath. “I would not take a life except at great need.”

“At
utmost
need, and perhaps not even then,” said Loren. “I thought you preferred a sharp tongue to a blade.”

“Always. And I would that we lived in a world where no blood need ever be spilt. But—”

“No!” barked Loren, louder than she meant to. They ducked on reflex, peering out at the sentries again. Her shout had gone unheard. “No,” she repeated in a murmur. “I have heard honeyed words before, coaxing me to admit that murder was needed. I did not listen then, nor will I now. If you mean to kill anyone, leave me free. Do these sentries threaten your life?”

“Not yet, but one small army in the wrong place could spell the doom of many.”

“That man,” Loren insisted, pointing at the sentry straight ahead. “What has he done? Is he a villain? Does he plot the overthrow of a kingdom? What is his crime that you would lop off his head?”

Jordel looked at the sentry and then turned to study Loren. He stayed silent so long, she feared he was brewing his anger. She braced herself to run.

Instead, his breath left in a long, whispering sigh before he spoke. “You are right.”

Loren blinked. “I am?”

“You are. Many claim to spill blood only when they must. Few who say so can live up to their words. I forgot myself for a moment, but you have reminded me. I am sorry.”

Loren could find no reply. No one, not her father, not Damaris nor Auntie, had ever taken her side. Most took her for a fool child, unwise in the ways of the world—even Gem and Annis, who were younger than her.

Before she could answer, they heard a shout and the clamor of hooves. They ducked behind the rocks, Jordel’s hand flying to his sword, and then together they peeked through a gap in the rocks.

From over the hills came two mercenaries on horseback, outriders for the army. The men carried long lances and had small bucklers on their arms. But Loren hardly noticed, trying to stifle the gasp she felt after seeing the bundle slung across one of their saddles—a small figure tied and strapped to the horse:
Gem.

four

THE SENTRY’S HEAD SNAPPED UP, nocking an arrow as he took a step forward. Then one of the riders called out, “Twin lights!” and the sentry lowered his bow.
 

The outriders pulled to a stop not far from the rocks where Jordel and Loren lay. The sentry came forwards to meet them.

“Well met,” said the sentry. “What have you there?”

“A small creature scuttling through these hills,” said one of the riders. “He has a shifty look, and his wide eyes might see too much.”

The sentry came to Gem and grabbed the boy’s hair, jerking it up to look at his face. Gem blanched, but a gag muffled his cry. Loren winced and went to move forward but was restrained by Jordel’s hand on her arm.

“We must help him!” whispered Loren.

“Hold a moment. I am thinking.”

“He is more than a decade from being a man,” declared the sentry.

“You never can tell with spies,” said the rider. “I have heard the King of Selvan recruits them this young so you would never look at them twice. And spy or not, one set of prying eyes is as bad as the next.”

“True enough,” grunted the sentry. “Off with him, then. They have put the cages in the—”

“Hail!” said Jordel, jumping to his feet and dragging Loren alongside him. They stepped out from the rocks as the sentry and outriders turned in astonishment. Again, the sentry raised his bow.
 

Jordel cried, “Twin lights!” and the bow lowered, but the sentry’s frown remained. Gem’s eyes widened on the horse’s back, and he ceased struggling against his bonds.

“I don’t know your face,” said the sentry. “What are you doing out here?”

“I don’t know most of the faces here,” said Jordel, shrugging amiably. “I am Brickand’s man, a new face plucked from the road.”

One of the outriders looked at the other, frowning. “Brickand? I don’t know a Brickand.”

“I know three,” replied the other. “Brickands run rampant in this land. An odd name, but common as weeds.”

Loren studied them curiously. The outriders spoke in strange voices and under their sun-brown skin were paler than any men she had ever seen. Yellow hair spilled to their shoulders, and they stood taller than most men. She wondered where they hailed from.
 

But Loren had looked long enough to draw their notice. The sentry nodded at her and growled. “Who is that one? Not one of the warrior women, I know, for she is far too young.”

“No indeed,” Jordel said. “I have traveled through these parts before and knew of a farmhouse not far away. I went to visit, and the girl wished to see the army.”

The outriders traded a sly glance. Even the sentry’s face seemed to lighten. Loren’s cheeks burnt, understanding their thoughts and the lie she would have to toy with. She let her blush deepen and ducked her head under her cowl as she giggled.
 

“I never thought to find so many of you here.” She let her voice quiver. “’Tis like seeing the great warhosts of old, something from father’s stories.”
 

Gem rolled his eyes. She wanted to cuff him.

The riders laughed. But the sentry scowled at Loren and turned to Jordel. “This is no place for sightseeing. She will remember our numbers as well as any enemy’s spy.”
 

Jordel waved a dismissive hand. “She has no wish to return home just yet, nor if she did would any think to ask her about us. Mayhap she will travel with me for a while.”

Loren tittered again and turned away as if bashful. “Only if I would be of no burden.”

Again, the outriders laughed. One of them used the butt of his lance to jostle the sentry on foot. “No burden she would be indeed, eh? I say good for the man.”

“Aye, leave them be, friend,” said the other rider. “She looks a pretty thing. Mayhap she would like to lighten the load of some others?” He grinned at Loren and kissed the air twice. Loren blushed deeper.
 

Jordel’s hand crept to his side, where his sword hung ready. Loren’s heart skipped as the Mystic’s voice came sharp as steel. “Surely, no warrior of Dulmun would think to press himself unwelcome, even in this faraway land? A sellsword should have more honor.”

The rider shrugged. “You mistake me, friend. I give an offer, not an obligation. I am not fool enough to invite a quiet dagger in the night.”

Jordel visibly relaxed. “I am glad to hear tales of Dulmun gallantry are no exaggeration. But what of your own passenger? That is no quail strung across your saddle, though he looks small enough to be such a bird.”

“This one?” The rider reached back and thumped Gem hard enough to draw a groan. “Mayhap a spy. Or simply a small child on his own, far from home. It hardly matters. He will get the question all the same, and like as not his end. You know the captain. ‘Silent and swift,’ he says again and again.”

“Until I think my ears might fall off,” said Jordel with a nod. “But this one hardly looks to be a spy. Not even Selvan gets them this young.”

“He moved like one and squealed when we caught him,” said the rider. “And now I think we had best be getting him on, for I have been too long without a meal.”

Struck by an idea, Loren wandered forward, her eyes wonderstruck. She came to Gem, who stared at her with pleading eyes.
 

“But this is only the little boy from the next farm over.” Her voice was singsong, airy and vacant, like a girl overwhelmed by the world. “I have known him since he was a pup, and a ripe squealer he has always been.” She raised her eyes to the rider, all innocence and curiosity.

The world fell dead silent. Both outriders glared at Loren in sudden suspicion. Their gaze drifted to Jordel behind her, and she felt a sinking hole expand in her stomach. Gem winced as if dying.
 

What have I done?
 

“He told us he was a riverman’s son,” said one of the riders. “Wandering off from his father’s boat while it rested on the bank.”

Loren’s mouth fell open, but she found no words, suddenly aware of the mounted men’s size and of the sentry standing unseen behind her.
 

“So, riverboy or farmer’s son?” growled the other rider. “Which lie to believe? Mayhap we have laid hands on two spies rather than one.”

“Or three—” the other began, turning towards Jordel.
 

He never finished, for the Mystic was a blur with his drawn sword, hacking the front legs from under the man’s mount.
 

The warrior pitched to the ground with a cry, and Gem tumbled from saddle to grass with a groan.
 

Loren seized his shoulders and dragged him from the steed’s flailing rear hooves as the creature screamed in agony on the ground.

Before Loren could cry out, Jordel struck again. This time, his blade plunged into the second rider’s chest, and the man fell dumbstruck from the saddle. Jordel grabbed the reins with his sword hand as he spun, shoving them over to Loren. She seized them without thinking.
 

Jordel jumped forward, for the other rider had regained his feet. The taller man dropped his lance in favor of a curved blade at his waist, but in three quick strokes Jordel had struck the weapon away. His blade gleamed in the sunlight, and the rider fell to his knees, head rolling through the grass, spurting blood as it went.