Turning Points (25 page)

“I’m a fool for misjudging you,” Ronal said, his eyes narrowing as he regarded his friend. “It’s not this bunch of mumblers and cauldron-stirrers that have you tied in knots. It’s the boy, isn’t it? They’ve got him already, and you know him.”

“I don’t know him, but his name is Lisoh,” Spyder said.
“He’s
fifteen summers old, and he’s Aaliyah’s brother. He was on a spirit-quest, something his people call
Vahana meh aaha diano
. It’s a kind of initiation into adulthood. But he wandered much too far, and when he didn’t return, Aaliyah went looking for him. I found her on the Nis border where I originally tried to stop this coven—and failed.”

And you will fail again, Regan Vigeles called Spyder, just as you did then.

Ronal stopped rowing and looked nervously toward the shore. “That wasn’t me,” he whispered.

The jungle cat’s cry sounded again, a shrill, high-pitched roar that chilled the blood.

From the east a sudden wind rose. It shook the leaves and the moss-dripping branches, shivered the reeds, and rippled across the water. The rowboat pitched and rocked. Spyder gripped both sides of the small craft and fought to keep it from overturning while Ronal struggled to do the same with the oars. “We’re gonna flip!” Ronal shouted.

But just as suddenly as the wind arose it ceased, and the river became calm once again. Spyder crouched in the bow. “You’re not in Nis now, Rime! Your powers are weak here!”

Laughter soared on the night, coming from everywhere and nowhere, and when it faded, the throb of coven drums replaced it, an ominous pulsing beat that came from deep within the Swamp of Night Secrets.

Ronal leaned on the oars, his powerful muscles visibly knotted, his face pale. “There once was a woman from Nis,” he muttered, pausing to chew his lip, “who went into the forest to piss. Her soft little splash turned a boulder to ash, and lizards crawled out of her…”

The wind ripped through the swamp and over the river again, and Rime’s voice took form on it.
Nasty little man, I heard that
! The rowboat rocked and bounced precariously on huge moonlit swells. Yet, the river seemed darker, the night less bright.

Spyder twisted around in the boat and shot a glance skyward. “The moon!” he shouted. “It’s begun!”

The smallest sliver of the left side of the moon was gone. A faint arc of redness, like a trickle of blood, marked the slowly advancing edge of the black, light-devouring shadow that would soon consume its radiance entirely. Somewhere in the swamp, the coven drums beat louder even as the wind stilled once more.

The jungle cat roared again.

“Head for that sound!” Spyder ordered.

“I’d rather head for the Unicorn,” Ronal shot back, “and for a couple of beers—I’d even buy!” But he angled the boat out of the main stream and into the reeds. “But no, before we ever find the witches we’re going to wind up cat food.”

A swarm of gnats, unseeable in the darkness, immediately surrounded them. Spyder pulled up his hood and covered his mouth and nose with one hand. Ronal, working the oars, cursed and sputtered, defenseless under the sudden onslaught. Then they were through whatever nest or insect home their passage had disturbed.

Spyder turned one shoulder toward his old friend. “Did you say gnat food?”

“No jokes from the bow,” Ronal grumbled. “You’re only allowed to brood and look ominous under your big black cloak.”

“Be glad they were gnats,” Spyder answered, “and not bees.”

Rime’s laughter touched their minds again, not borne on a wind this time, but on a malevolent buzzing.

Ronal ceased rowing and looked up in horrible expectation. “I think I mis-remembered the limerick!” he hissed. “They weren’t lizards that crawled out of her orifice. They were… ! Oh no!” Leaving the oars to rattle in their oarlocks, he flung himself over the side.

The bees came like a black wave over the tops of the reeds and through the tall river grasses. Clutching both sides of the rowboat to steady it, Spyder crouched down. He was not only cloaked and hooded, but also gloved. Still, he felt the weight of the creatures striking at his back, at his arms, trying to sting him. In only moments, hood or no hood, they would find his face and eyes.

“Get out of the boat!” he heard Ronal yell. “We can get under it!”

But there was no need for that. The buzzing diminished. Bees dropped out of the air into the boat, or into the water with little plops. Spyder shook one gloved hand, then straightened, shedding bees from his back and shoulders like droplets of water. Ronal’s head broke the surface about three feet from the side of the boat. He shrieked and pushed wildly at the water with his hands, parting the bobbing curtain of insect corpses around him.

Then the panic left his face and a look of puzzlement replaced it. He swam to the boat, caught it with both hands, and peeked over the side at the unnatural cargo they’d taken on. “What the… ?” He brushed a dead bee off the oarlock.

“The cold,” Spyder said, balancing the boat while Ronal clambered back in. “Bees go dormant in the cold.”

Ronal settled back between the oars, clutching himself and shivering. “It’s been a warm winter…” He stopped as his teeth began to clack and chatter. “Until now.” He hugged himself even harder and rubbed his bare arms.

It was Spyder’s turn to laugh. “Is that the best you can manage, Rime?” he shouted. “Nis’s Grand Witch reduced to conjuring
annoyances
?”

“I’m not just wet,” Ronal complained with a disbelieving voice, “I’m freezing! How… ?” He stared at Spyder, then at the bees on the floor of the boat. With a vengeful determination, he began squashing them with his boots.

“You don’t seem to be able to finish your sentences, my friend.”

Spyder observed as he unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Ronal. “Row, and you’ll quickly warm up.”

They didn’t row much farther. Abruptly the bottom of the boat dragged, and the bow bumped up on land.

It couldn’t be called dry land. They slogged through ankle-deep mud for the first fifty paces and forded a stream that cut suddenly across their path. Patches of dense foliage also impeded them, and strange groves of trees with willowy, whip-like branches and complicated, interlocking root structures sometimes blocked their way.

There was no sign of the Vasalan vessel. Spyder began to fear that the drums were a trick, a distraction intended to lure him in the wrong direction. He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder. Sometimes the thick trees hid the moon from him. But sometimes he could catch a glimpse of it—what remained of it.

“It—it—shouldn’t be so c-c-cold!” Ronal muttered as he walked. His breath came out in a feathery stream. Spyder’s cloak was much too long for him, so he wore the hood up and the rest of it clutched around his upper body.

Spyder didn’t answer. He moved through the undergrowth with the speed and sureness of desperation. The drums were louder than ever in his ears—or were they just in his mind, an auditory hallucination sent by Rime to confound him? He pressed his palms to his ears. If the sound were real, wouldn’t he be able to shut it out? He no longer glanced at the sky; he could feel the darkening moon on his neck. Far ahead he thought he spied a glow that might have been a fire.

He had no choice but to trust his natural senses as he plunged forward.

Rime’s voice touched his mind again.
You cannot hope to succeed, Regan Vigeles. You didn’t even get close to me in your first pathetic attempt
.

“You killed one of my agents on your border,” he answered without slowing his pace. “For that alone I would hunt you to the ends of the world.”

You are too late, fool. The boy is at the stake, and the torch is in my hand. The ring is already on my finger!

“You’re a lying whore,” Spyder answered. “The ring can’t be tempered until the moon is completely eclipsed.”

“Lying whore,” Ronal repeated sarcastically as he hurried along on Spyder’s heels. “I like that. It has a ring—oh, pardon me!”

You and your witless lackey are far outnumbered. If you do find us, I’ll eat your heart with a spoon.

Spyder’s eyes narrowed as he felt Rime’s power weighing down upon him. Her words were more than mere words; they were tiny spells designed to feed his doubts, to erode his confidence, to slow him. Despite himself, he glanced over his shoulder again. No more than a quarter of the moon remained. And in the instant that he diverted his attention from his path, he stumbled over an unseen root. Yet, he caught himself and did not fall.

“You’re wrong, Witch,” Spyder said through clenched teeth. Her power was subtle, but he resisted it with all his will. Yes, he had doubts—about himself and about his purpose. But he had no doubts about his abilities. “There are more than two of us stalking you tonight. I am numberless as the stars that grow brighter even as the moon dims. You speak to my mind, but you can’t see me. I’m right behind you, and my knife is at your throat!”

He felt as much as heard her gasp.
Now it’s you who lie, Rankan
!

A cold sneer turned up the corners of Spyder’s mouth. “But it’s you who flinched, bitch.”

At last he knew he was on the right course. He heard the desperation in her words as she strove to delay him, and panic lent her thought-sendings a serrated edge. More, he was certain that the glow he saw ahead was firelight. It flickered among the trunks and branches, danced on the leaves. And yet with that sense of certainty a new fear came. Rime had said the boy was already at the stake!

“Spyder!”

Steel rang loudly on steel, and Spyder’s eyes snapped wide at the sound of his name. For an instant, Rime had almost trapped him in his own web of doubt, and he had to admire the subtlety of her effort even as he shrugged off its effects.

Rime laughed inside his head.
You are surrounded, Rankan. In moments you will be dead
!

Three of Rime’s coven brothers leaped out of the foliage and ran at him. Their nude bodies were painted with green mud and black slime. More mud dulled the metal sheen of their swords. The sounds of combat behind him indicated that Ronal was already engaged.

Spyder’s hand went to the dagger on his belt, and the glittering blade flashed under the reddening moon as it flew straight to the nearest attacker’s throat. A second Nisi rushed at him, swinging his sword in a horizontal arc. Spyder ducked low and side-stepped, and as he straightened he freed his own sword, raked it through the man’s mid-section. Without pausing, he smashed his booted foot into the third Nisi’s groin. It failed to have the expected effect— perhaps the man was a eunuch?—and Spyder dodged and parried a wild flurry of strokes.

“You’ll learn not to meddle in the affairs of your betters!” the Nisi shouted, pausing to catch his breath.

“Here’s a lesson for you,” Spyder answered. He spun sharply, ripping a handful of leaves from a bush and flinging them at his foe’s eyes. The Nisi recoiled, instinctively jerking his head away to protect his sight, and never saw the Enlibar sword before it bit deeply into his neck.

“And the witless lackey scores three on his own,” Ronal said with mocking calm. At his feet on the muddy ground lay three more coven members. He tore leaves from a bush and wiped his blade.

Spyder turned toward the distant fire. “No words, Rime?” he shouted as he sheathed his sword. “Do you feel my breath on your neck, Witch?”

A pantherish roar sounded from the trees nearby. Startled, Ronal jumped and stumbled over one of the bodies, landing on his back. “Shite!” he cursed as he scrambled to his feet again. “That damned beast is getting too close for comfort!” He kicked the body he’d fallen over. “Maybe this meat will satisfy its appetite. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

But Spyder was already off again through the swamp, his gaze fixed on the fire. The ground turned muddy once more, slowing him, and he waded through a shallow stream. He brushed aside low limbs and vines and tried to brush away thoughts of quicksand. Rime spoke to him no more; the drums did her talking now, and he felt their power like waves on his skin. He glanced yet again at the moon. It was nearly gone.

He remembered the clouds he’d seen far out over Hag’s Teeth. If Rime couldn’t see the moon it might affect the timing of her spells. But that was too small a hope; those clouds were too thin and too far away.

What was worse, he wondered as he began to run. Failing to destroy the ring? That would mean another war with Nis, one that neither Ranke, nor Ilsig, could afford. Or losing the boy, Lisoh. That would break Aaliyah’s heart. Why was he even asking the question now? He had his duty to the empire. No matter that it had ruined his family and declared him outcast—Ranke still commanded his loyalty.

Yet, it was Aaliyah, though, who commanded his heart.

He leaped a barricade of twisted roots, ducked under a low branch and dodged the gaping mouth of a hissing serpent that hung from it. Puddles splashed under his feet. He no longer valued stealth. Only speed mattered. A grove of willow trees loomed before him. A pale mist drifted over the grass, unnaturally thick, he thought, but there was no time to find a way around. He feared losing sight of the fire if he veered off course.

Clouds. Mist.

Perhaps.

The air turned chilly again, and a light fog began to eddy over the ground. Wispy tendrils swirled lazily upward, diffusing on the air. The stars, so bright in a crisp sky, began to waver and fade as a gray veil obscured their light. Stubbornly, the remaining sliver of moonlight lingered, yet moment by moment, the milky effluvium rose and deepened. The Swamp of Night Secrets seemed to shrink in upon itself as one by one the stars vanished entirely.

Spyder ran, narrowly avoiding trees and obstacles in his path. Only the barest hint of fireglow remained, and he focused his gaze on that and nothing else. He was sure Ronal was behind him, but he didn’t know where. He didn’t hear any sound of pursuit. Indeed, he didn’t hear anything but those frantic drums and his own harsh breathing and his sloshing footfalls.

Then, he stopped suddenly, grabbing desperately at a slender tree to catch his balance as he found himself at the edge of a fifteen foot high embankment above a narrow tributary. A black Vasalan ship sat anchored on a river of mist at the opposite bank, its mast swaying ever so slowly. Not one, but three crackling bonfires burned on that far side. The lanky silhouettes of Nis witches danced around them, their shapes and movements twisted, distorted by the fog.