Stone Rising (18 page)

             
“Run, Will!”

             
The two launched into a sprint, aiming to reach the entrance to the latrines. The guards and Cooper lunged forwards, in an attempt to cut them off, the figure they chaperoned hanging back, a smile part-way between confusion and amusement playing his features.

             
Even as the two parties drew near, the Boy could tell that they weren’t going to make it. A judgement call, his arm drawing back and hurling the halberd like a spear. The weapon was heavy, unwieldy, the targets moving, but the Boy’s arm was strong and his aim true.

             
The lead guard took the top of the weapon clean in his stomach, the keen edge of the point driving hard through the leather and piercing his flesh deeply. He screamed in pain, stumbling backwards and barring the way for his comrades with his flailing form.

             
The two seized their chance, Will darting through the doorway into the latrines first, the Boy hot on his heels. The stench of the room hit them, even as they entered; amazing how people in towns could live like this, thought the Boy, as they darted towards one of the holes. Will stopped, staring down into the chute through which light could be seen some twenty feet below.

             
“Really…?”

             
A call from behind as the guards burst into the room and the Boy pushed hard on Will’s back, sending him toppling over forwards and down, head-first, into the grimy chute. Will’s scream receded as he slipped and spat his way to freedom. Feeling the breath of his pursuers on his neck, not daring to turn around, the Boy leapt up, then dropped, feet first into the chute.

             
A snagging feeling, and he was jerked to a halt, the tunic about his neck tightening as though something of great strength had grabbed him, arresting his flight. A voice, dark, menacing and full of pent-up rage snarled into his ear.

             
“Where d’ya think you’re goin’, toff…?”

Chapter Eight:

Green eyes flashed open, wide with terror. Gwenna bolted upright, sitting on the floor, head still spinning from exertion as the cold wind blew in from the window, causing her pale, naked form to shiver.

             
With a cold feeling of dread, it all came back to her; the crying out of the spirits from outside had warned her, given her moments’ notice. She had risen from the bed she had shared with Virginie, bedsheet wrapped about her slim form, just as the robed figure of Francois had burst into the room, crossbow in one hand, bloodied sword in the other. She remembered his face, a mask of horror and rage as his eyes took in the two women, his mouth wrinkling in disgust at an act his holy book no doubt condemned. She remembered the snarl as he’d raised his crossbow, finger pulling the trigger, barbed death leaping her way.

             
She’d raised her hands, calling forth upon the spirits of earth to save her.

             
Then blackness.

             
Shaking her head free from the dizzying effects of spirit-sickness, she looked down to the cold floor upon which she sat. There, two feet away, the blunted, broken shape of the crossbow bolt. She nodded in relief; the spirits of earth had seen fit to answer her, to lend her their unyielding strength, though for what purpose she didn’t know.

She was only grateful that they had.

              Panic suddenly struck her as she saw the empty bed, Virginie’s thin dress gone from where it had lain at the foot of the bedframe. Where was she? How long had Gwenna been out? She reached out with her shaman senses, following the still-fresh link between the girls. It was stretched thin and growing thinner each moment; only on horseback could the two, the girl and her kidnapper, be making such progress. She had been unconscious for mere minutes.

Every moment would count.

              The shaman rose, then fell again, leaning against the bedframe for support. She took a moment to catch her breath then, weary of limb but chest quivering with fear and anger, she clothed herself, before stumbling out into the corridor.

***

Arris gazed down in horror at the weak and groaning form before him. The orange embers of the dying hearth served only to highlight the unnatural paleness of Pol’s face.

             
“You fool,” whispered the shaman as he looked down upon his friend. “Always rushing in, always so headstrong and spoiling for a fight.”

             
A hand on his shoulder, soft, trembling.

             
“How is he?”

             
He turned to looked up, the kind face of their hostess Felice gazing down upon him, tanned skin creased with worry and fear.

             
“Not good,” the lad answered, gesturing helplessly to the crossbow bolt still embedded in his friend’s chest. “How’s your husband?”

             
She glanced backwards over her shoulder, to where James sat on a stool at the bar, wrapping his bloodied arm in a linen bandage. The Englishman saw their scrutiny, giving them a thumbs up, grimacing.

             
“He’ll live.”

             
It had all happened so fast, thought Arris. The man had barged in from the night air, swathed in black robes. He had thought he’d recognised him from before, from the market place in one of the villages previous.

             
Francois, that had been his name.

             
This time, however, he seemed to be in worse humour. Crossbow nooked in his arm, the man had scanned the room with desperate urgency. When James had wandered over to offer the man hospitality, his only reply had been the slash of a sword, whipping out from beneath the man’s robes. In a flurry of black fabric, the man had turned and departed, leaving the shocked room. As the others had tended to the fallen bartender, trying their best to stem the flow of blood, Arris had darted out to chase the intruder, but the assailant had vanished down one of the corridors.

             
That was when, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Pol, sprawled on the ground just outside the door.

             
Now, having been brought inside, the youth looked pale, sickly, the loss of blood great. With his shaman-sight, Arris could tell that his life was fading and fast. There was nothing he could do, not here, not now. He was never that confident in his skills as a healer, to begin with, not compared to the likes of Pol himself, or Gwenna of course.

             
Gwenna! Where was she? In the panic, he had forgotten that she hadn’t been in the room with them. He rose, turning, to make his way to the door, but stopped.

There she was; she looked weary, supporting her petite form with one arm against the doorway, a look of desperate sadness mixed with urgency on her face as the breeze from the outside door rustled her curly red hair.

“Gwenna,” it was Felice that spoke, striding over to put an arm on the shaman’s shoulder, worried from the looks of her that she might be injured herself. “Are you okay?”

A tired nod from the girl was her only response.

“Bon. Have you seen ma cousine, perchance? I would very much like to know that she’s safe…”

A shudder seemed to pass through the shaman, her eyes closed, then when she opened them, they were full of fiery anger.

“She’s gone. Taken.”

Felice stepped backwards, hand to her mouth in shock as James pulled himself up from the bar and strode, painfully, to her side.

“Taken?” he enquired. “How do you mean? Was it that man? Who was he?”

It was Arris that answered.

“His name was Francois. He is a bon-frère, or so he had us believe.” The others all turned to look at him. “We saw him in the last village through which we travelled before we reached here. Apparently he used to have feelings for Virginie. She rejected him. It was a long time ago.”

Gwenna snarled, the menace in the sound causing those about her to start.

“It seems old feelings die hard.” The diminutive shaman seemed to grow as she let herself be filled with vengeful purpose. She turned to the rest of her troupe who sat about the inn, still half in shock over such an attack at such a vulnerable time. “We go. Now. We find her and rescue her from the clutches of this man.” She turned, now, to Felice. “They are on horseback – where can we find steeds to speed our way?”

Silence greeted her and she frowned, making to open her mouth and berate her companions, but Arris stepped to one side, gesturing with his arm, a look of hopeless sorrow on his youthful face.

There, for the first time, Gwenna saw the prone form of Pol before the fire, his eyes closed, breathing shallow, a great stain of crimson about the crossbow  bolt that lay lodged in his chest. A shiver went down the shaman girl’s back as she beheld the sight, torn now, as she was, between the urgent, desperate need to track down and rescue the French girl and her duty to stay and do her best for her dying companion.

“Is there anything we can do?”

Arris’ eyes were pleading.

Gwenna went to shake her head, but something stopped her, a voice within, like whispered words from a half-remembered dream. She screwed her eyes shut, then slowed her breathing, calmed her thoughts, suppressed herself and let ages-old wisdom rise, slowly, from the depths of her soul, to the surface.

After long moments, she opened her eyes, the green orbs glistening with newfound knowledge and purpose, at least for now. She nodded.

“Shamans, to me.” She turned to Felice who stood, pale and fearful, wrapped in the one uninjured arm of her husband. “What you are about to see may scare you, but fear not; what we are about to do is only good, is only natural. If you wish, you may leave the room. But rest assured, there is no danger to yourselves.”

With that, Gwenna strode over to the unconscious form of Pol, kneeling down before him and taking in the scope of his wound. The bolt had pierced his sternum, possibly penetrating organs within. This would take great power, more than she could call upon herself, at least in this land. But through the wisdom of Wrynn, she knew what could be done.

“Arris,” she command. “
Larcia, each put a hand on my shoulders. The others, hold hands, form a circle and empty your minds.”

The shaman lad and the shaman girl both did as they were bade, placing their hands on their leader’s shoulders, the other shamans clasping their hands until the group had formed a circle of power. They emptied their minds, reciting mantras taught them for just such a purpose.

Gwenna closed her eyes, expanded her consciousness. Yes, there, that was good; the empty, still vessels of the other shamans, trained as they were, provided a buffer, a spill-over, that would help to reduce the shock of the inevitable spirit-sickness that would follow this crafting. Back in times past, before they’d crossed the portal into this world, Gwenna could have taken on this task without such precautions. But here, as she’d experienced so many times of late, the spirits were mistrusting, flighty, and on the rare occasions they deigned to help, they exacted a fearsome toll on the soul.

The connection to her fellow shamans firm, she opened her shaman-senses, followed by her eyes. All about her, the spirits of the area gathered, watching with interest the ritual taking place. Aware of her scrutiny, they began to dart away, but she called out with her mind.

I’m not here to bind you, she spoke to them with a voice that was not a voice. I want your help willingly. Please. We have an agreement with your masters, with the Avatars themselves. Honour it. Help this man that lays stricken before you.

A glittering trail of light circled down, the figure of a Sylphii, a spirit of air, alighting atop the tip of the crossbow bolt. It had the appearance of a human female, of perfect proportions, yet tiny, no more than a couple of inches tall, with delicate gossamer butterfly wings that protruded from its back. It regarded Gwenna with dark and mesmerising eyes. The shaman could feel the powerful
influence of the creature’s magic, its glamour, like the heady aroma of perfume that could cause you to lose your focus. But she resisted, experienced at dealing with creatures such as this.

The Sylphii harrumphed, as though its fun had been spoilt, then opened its mouth to speak, its voice delicate, playful, like the tinkling of tiny, crystal bells.

“You speak of agreements, child. You speak of avatars. Yet we do not know you.”

Another Sylphii, similar to the first, with long hair and a slim, elfin form, flitted down to land on Gwenna’s shoulder, hopping from one of Arris’ fingers to the next as it spoke into her ear.

“You have the gift, that is true. You have been trained in the craft, that is also true. But you do not
belong
.”