The Golden Key (Book 3) (37 page)

16

Hobart stretched and yawned. He shook himself and sat up in
the bed. It was a bit short for him, but he had gotten used to that long ago.
Most inns didn’t have beds that were long enough for him, and Dagremon’s was no
different. He put his feet flat on the cold wood floor and stood up. He
stretched again, relishing how normal it felt. The fatigue was gone, and he couldn’t
remember feeling as well-rested as he was now.

He lifted his sword from the table and held it easily in one
hand. He smiled, gripped the hilt firmly, and twirled it around him in a series
of quick parries, thrusts, and slashes. It had been too long since he had done
these exercises when he first woke up, and it felt wonderful to get the blood
pumping without worrying about it sapping his energy.

After a few minutes, he set the sword back on the table and
started the routine sequence of calisthenics that had been drilled into him
when he had gone through his training. He had kept at them whenever he was
able, but it had been nearly three weeks since he had done them. They had been
a long three weeks, filled with fatigue and sleep and exhaustion and sorrow.

He stepped around in a tight circle, bending as he went and
thrusting out one leg and arm, then the other. He went more quickly, testing
his limits until he began to sweat and breathe a bit more heavily. Still his
muscles didn’t ache, didn’t protest. Was the poison finally out of his body?
Was it time for them to leave? But where was he to go?

He frowned. He would have to decide today. They had spent
far longer at Dagremon’s than they should have, and he couldn’t put it off any
longer. He was still a banner captain, and he had duties to fulfill. But which
duty? Should he go to Hellsbreath and report in? Commander Garret had expected
him to return in time to go with the patrol, and it had the weight of an order.
It hadn’t
been
an order—if it had been, he wouldn’t have let Giorge talk
him into hunting for fletching eggs—but it had sounded like one. Commanders
could give those kind of orders to banner captains, but he hadn’t
said
it was an order. He had only said, “I would like you to go with the patrol and
show them what you found.” That was a request, wasn’t it?

Yes, he should go back to Hellsbreath and report in. He
needed to update the banner records to show the loss of personnel, and he
needed to find out if Angus had returned. Was that what was keeping him at
Dagremon’s longer than he should have stayed? Was he trying to give Angus more
time to get to Hellsbreath? They should have left Dagremon’s three days ago….

We should go to the Lake of Scales,
he thought.
Angus
said he thought the fishmen were there. If they are there and I return to
Hellsbreath with that news, it would go a long way to easing Commander Garret’s
anger for not making it back in time to join the patrol. But what if Angus was
wrong? What if the fishmen aren’t there? It would further delay our return to
Hellsbreath and add to Commander Garret’s anger.
He frowned.
Commander
Garret had sent men after them to find out where they had gone. He wouldn’t
have done that if it hadn’t been an order.

Sweat dripped from his long blonde tangles as he shifted to
an extensive drill. He should be doing it in his armor, but he wasn’t ready to
get dressed yet. He was going to take a well-deserved bath, first. Dagremon had
insisted that it would help his muscles recover from the yiffrim poison, and he
had begun to enjoy the routine of a long, warm morning bath. But it was a
luxury he couldn’t afford, and he needed to remember that. In a day or two, he
would be riding again, and bathing would be a memory. Still, it seemed to be
helping him recover, and he was going to take advantage of it for as long as
possible.

He was in the middle of a complicated series of feints when
someone pounded on his door. It wasn’t a polite tap or even a soft thump; it
was like the hammer-fisted rattle of one of the lieutenants he had served under
when he was being trained. He stopped in mid-thrust and turned to the door. He
paused to breathe, and then softly walked up to stand next to it. He held his
sword high, and asked, “Who is it?”

There was a brief pause, and then a man with a gruff, gangly
voice said, “Patrol. We seek Hobart of the Banner of the Wounded Hand. We will
have words with him.”

Hobart frowned. Why would a patrol be looking for him here?
“To what end?” he asked.

The man hesitated, lowered his voice, and said, “It is a
matter of some delicacy. It is not wise to discuss it in hallways where other
ears can hear it.”

Hobart frowned. Matters of delicacy were always annoying;
they usually meant that he would be doing something dangerous. But he didn’t
have to worry about that any longer; he was going to disband the banner when he
got to Hellsbreath, and there was nothing they could do about it. But he hadn’t
reached Hellsbreath yet, and they still had a right to call upon him and his
banner if they were needed. He sighed and opened the door far enough to see
out.

The soldier on the other side was dressed in the familiar
brown of a Tyrian patrol, and he had the markings and rank of a veteran. There
was a small scar above his right eye, and another on his cheek. His straggly
beard tried to cover that scar with its thick, kinky, gray shag, but it was too
pronounced for it to be completely hidden. His eyes were steady, dark, and brooding
as he tried to step forward and stopped. “Will you let me in?” he grumbled.

Hobart hesitated until the soldier made the recognition sign
with his left hand before stepping aside and letting him into the room. The top
of the old soldier’s head was balding, but the sides were a gray tonsure that
dangled halfway down his back. He was at least a foot shorter than Hobart, but
he carried himself like a coiled snake ready to strike. Hobart closed the door
and turned to him, his sword resting lightly on his sweaty shoulder. He
returned to his practice and asked, “What is this delicate matter that you wish
to see me about?”

The old soldier didn’t blink as the tip of the sword stabbed
the air not far from his ear, nor did he make any move to draw his own blade. Instead,
he said, “I have news of one of your banner. A wizard named Angus sought
healing in Tyrag.”

Hobart’s blade quivered as he stopped in mid-thrust and
turned to the old soldier. “Angus?” he repeated. “He’s alive?” Could it be
possible? Could Angus have survived? But how? He had told Ortis he had a plan—

“Yes,” the old soldier said. “He was severely injured, but
the healer was able to mend him. I do not know the details. I am here because
of what he told the guard when he arrived. He said he thought the fishmen were
at the Lake of Scales.” The old soldier paused, studying Hobart for his reaction
before he demanded, “What do you know of this?”

Hobart stared at the old soldier and asked, “What is your
name? Who sent you here?”

“I am called Ogden, and I am here at the behest of Commander
Garret.”

“Well, Ogden,” Hobart began, “I know no more than you do.
Angus had suspicions about the fishmen being at the Lake of Scales, but there
was no evidence to corroborate them.”

Ogden’s lips compressed, and then he asked, “Did you not
investigate his suspicions?”

Hobart frowned and shook his head. “No,” he said. “They
didn’t warrant it at the time.” That wasn’t true and he knew it. Angus had
overheard enough and had told Hobart enough of what he had overheard to warrant
an investigation. But Giorge…. “He had overhead a patrol from the valley
talking about something that led him to think the fishmen were there, but they
hadn’t mentioned the fishmen or described anything remotely resembling them.
Since we had other tasks to attend to, we didn’t investigate it at the time.”

The old man nodded, and asked, “What business was it?”

Hobart frowned and shook his head. “It is of no affair of
yours or the Commander’s.”

The old man scowled and shook his head. “It delayed your
return, and Commander Garret was most displeased when you were unable to lead
that patrol to where you had seen the fishmen. He is eagerly awaiting your
return so you can explain yourself.”

Hobart shrugged. “Then I will explain it to him, not you.”

Ogden shrugged and said, “Very well. I only stopped long
enough to find out what you know before heading into the valley to see if the
fishmen are there. Is there anything more that you can tell me?”

Hobart thought for a moment and then nodded. “Avoid the
patrols down there; they don’t want anyone to know what’s happening. Whatever
it was that came out of the mountains hasn’t attacked them, and they want to
keep it that way.”

Ogden waited for more, but there was nothing else that
Hobart could tell him. Angus had very little information to support his
suspicions, and the argument he had made had been shaky. It was plausible, like
most of Angus’s arguments, but not very likely. Then again, he had thought
Angus was dead and he wasn’t. Maybe there was more to this than Hobart thought?
“All right then,” Ogden said, moving quickly to the door.

“Wait,” Hobart said as Ogden opened the door. “Give us an
hour and we’ll come with you.”

Ogden shook his head and said, “No. Commander Garret is
waiting for your return.” He turned and stepped out of the room, and then he
paused to look back at Hobart. “I would not tax his patience any longer than is
needed. He may be a forgiving commander, but his generosity has limits. I
wouldn’t test them if I were you.” Then he turned and hurried down the hall as
Hobart shut the door.

After Ogden was gone, Hobart hurried to put on his armor and
made his way to Ortis’s room. Ortis was already awake, and he quickly recounted
the encounter with Ogden.

“So,” Ortis said, “Angus has survived.” His tone was flat,
as if it didn’t matter to him that Angus wasn’t dead. But it mattered to
Hobart, and he was a bit put off by Ortis’s cavalier attitude. What was wrong
with him, anyway? He should be happy about it—or at least relieved.

“Yes,” Hobart said, his tone a bit defensive. “He’ll be on
his way to Hellsbreath now, and we need to get back there. We’ll leave after
breakfast.” He turned to leave, but Ortis put a hand out to stop him.

“Hobart,” Ortis said, “I am leaving the banner.”

Hobart turned and stared at Ortis for a long moment. He had
just reconciled himself to continuing the banner when he found out Angus was
alive, and now Ortis was leaving. “Why?” he asked. “We’ve been together for a
long time.”

Ortis nodded. “I know,” he said. “But it has been long
enough. It’s time for me to find my people again.”

“I thought they were all dead,” Hobart said. “When you came
out the Death Swamps, you said you could never go back again.”

Ortis nodded. “I couldn’t then,” he agreed. “But now that
the Death Swamps are free of the fishmen, I want to try. There may have been
other survivors.”

Hobart stared into Ortis’s orange-tinted eyes and saw the
many battles they had fought together reflected back at him. How many times had
they spent in contemplation next to each other by the campfire? He slowly
nodded and said, “All right.” There was nothing else he could say. Ortis was
free to quit the banner whenever he liked, and he knew him well enough to know that
Ortis had thought about his decision for a long time before he had made it.
Still, he was reluctant to let him go, so he said, “I’ll go with you.”

Ortis smiled and put his arm on his shoulder. “Thank you,
Hobart, but we both know you can’t do that. You know what will happen when you
go into the Death Swamps.”

Ortis was right; He couldn’t go with him into those dark,
fetid bogs; they made it almost impossible for him to breathe. “No,” Hobart reluctantly
agreed, “but I can go with you that far.”

Ortis shook his head. “No, Hobart,” he said. “You have a
duty to Giorge to fulfill.”

Hobart frowned, took a long breath, and then let it out as a
sigh. “I was thinking of ending the banner, anyway,” he said. “But when I found
out Angus was still alive,” Hobart shook his head. “It’s decided, then. When we
get to Hellsbreath, I’ll report that we have disbanded. I’ll head west to find
this Auntie Fie, and you can head north to the Death Swamps. I’ll leave word of
the decision for Angus if he doesn’t reach Hellsbreath before we depart.”

Ortis nodded, squeezed Hobart’s shoulder, and let his hand
fall to his side. “I’ll get ready to leave,” he said. “We’ll be going to
Hellsbreath today, won’t we?”

Hobart reluctantly nodded and turned away. Once he was in
the hallway, his shoulders sagged as he realized how close he was to the end of
his banner and he began to wonder what he would do once he had delivered Giorge’s
message to Auntie Fie.

17

We agreed,
Sardach thought.
I am to take you to
Hellsbreath. We are not yet there.

Yes,
Angus thought back.
But you can’t fly me
through their protective barrier. The wizards will notice and take it as a
threat. They will defend themselves.

Sardach considered this for a long moment, and then conceded
the point.
Where, then?

On the road near the lift to the south,
he thought,
where it is still dark. I will walk from there, and you will be free to go.

Sardach made a subtle shift in direction as he circled south
around the city and slowed down.
I must take you to Hellsbreath,
he
said.
It was agreed.

Angus frowned, but he knew it was pointless to continue arguing
with him. A Wizard’s Pact was binding, even if circumstances changed. It was
his own fault; he should have worded it differently.
Very well,
Angus
thought.
You may walk with me to the lift. Once we are there, you will be
free from my service and can return to your home.

Yessss,
Sardach hissed to him. A few minutes later,
they landed and Angus made his way along the road to the lift area. He strode
up to the recorder and said, “I am Angus, the wizard for the Banner of the
Wounded Hand.”

The old man nodded and opened his book. He thumbed through
several pages until he reached one that satisfied him. He skimmed through it
and asked, “Are the other members of your banner with you?”

“No,” he said. “Hobart and Ortis are on their way, but I do
not know if or when they will arrive. Giorge,” he paused to sigh, “died.”

The old man nodded and dipped his quill in his inkwell and
crossed off Giorge’s name. “Date and manner of death?”

“I am not certain of either,” Angus replied. “We were
separated at the time. I lost track of them in the mountains, and my hope is to
be reunited with them when they return here. They will be able to fill in the
details for you.”
Unless they died, as well.

The old man frowned up at him and said, “I suppose that will
have to do.”

“It will,” Angus said, smiling. “I have no more information
to offer than what I have thus far given. In the meantime, how long will it be
before the lift is ready to rise again?”

The old man glanced up at the darkness and said, “There is
little traffic tonight. It will be near morning, when the patrols change. Three
hours, at least.”

Three hours?
Angus repeated to himself.
That’s too
long. I need to get to the Wizards’ School. If Embril has done what I asked her
to do, she may have left word behind.
“I don’t think I’ll wait for it,” he
said, looking up and drawing the magic into his awareness. “Is there anything
else you need before I go?” There was plenty of air magic, and he selected the
strands he needed.

The old man looked at him shrewdly and then shook his head. “No.
I will wait to update the records when your companions arrive.”

Companions?
Angus wondered as he nodded.
Is that
what they are?
He turned away to cast the flying spell. It was a bit of a
waste, really; his need wasn’t urgent enough to warrant it. He should wait for
the lift, but it would take little time to prime for the spell again. Besides,
he wanted to be rid of Sardach; the longer the elemental stayed with him, the
greater the likelihood of his discovery. Even in the dark.

A minute later, he landed on the wall next to where the lift
normally settled into place. The guardsman on duty scowled at him, and asked,
“Did you check in below?”

Angus smiled and nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I hope I
didn’t startle you.”

The guardsman shrugged. “Name?” he said. “I will have to
check with them below.”

“Angus. I’m the wizard for the Banner of the Wounded Hand.”

The guardsman looked more closely at him, and said, “I
thought as much, but you seem a bit different. Is that scoundrel Hobart down
there, too?”

“No,” Angus said. “I’m not sure where he is right now. It’s
one of the things I need to check on.” He looked toward the city. “If you don’t
mind, I’d like to go.”

The guardsman considered for a moment before nodding.
“Sure,” he said. “We can always track you down later if we need to.”

Angus nodded and hurried across to the center railing of the
wall. He paused there and thought,
You may go now, Sardach.

There was no reply and no indication of Sardach’s presence
near him. It didn’t matter, though; the elemental had fulfilled his part of the
Wizard’s Pact and brought him to Hellsbreath. It was up to Angus from this
point on, and the first place he needed to go was the Wizards’ School. He
needed to find out about Embril. After that? It would depend on what he found out
about her.

He stepped off the wall and flew gracefully, easily toward
the Wizards’ School’s spire.