Winged Magic (13 page)

Sayyed hung suspended in a black pitiless limbo somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. He could not see or move or speak; he could only dwell in the pain that racked his body. He thought at first the pain was only in his head, in a blinding crack behind his ear that threatened to split open his entire skull. But as he concentrated on that agonizing sensation, more of his senses became aware, and other parts of his body began to complain. His neck, shoulders, and arms ached for some reason he did not yet understand, and his shins and ankles felt battered. Confused at this unknown assault, Sayyed’s mind scrambled farther out of the black fog to seek a way to end the pain.

He became aware of several things at once. First, although he knew his eyes were open, he could not see. Fabric had been wrapped around his head, effectively blinding and gagging him. Second, he realized his arms and shoulders hurt because someone had roped his arms up over his head and was dragging him, facedown, over ground rough with short shrubs, rocks, and small prickly cactus,

Groggily he struggled against the tight bonds on his arms, but his efforts brought only a vicious kick that landed on his ribs. He groaned and stayed still while he forced his mind to full alertness.

He briefly considered summoning magic to break his ropes; then he set that idea aside for the moment. He was still too groggy and could neither speak nor use his hands. Without those guides and the strength to control the powerful energy, he could cause more trouble for himself than he was in now. The magic could burst out of control and destroy all who were in the vicinity.

Instead, he let his body hang limply in his captors’ hands and listened to the sounds around him, hoping to learn more about the men who held him and what had happened to Rafnir. As he concentrated, he discerned more footsteps, perhaps five or six pairs, and what could be the sound of another body being dragged close by.

The attackers moved swiftly and silently up an easy slope, then down a long, gentle incline to a hollow lined with gravel and short spindly plants that crackled under Sayyed’s weight. There the unseen men stopped and dropped their captives on the ground.

“By the Path of Sargun, these brigands are heavy!” one voice complained. “Why did we have to drag them out here?”

A second, harsher voice answered, “He said no more killing in the camp. It’ll start to be noticed.”

Sayyed bit his lip to stifle a moan of pain. His arms were still up over his head and felt as if they had been racked from his shoulders. He felt the other body rolled over beside him, and to his relief, he heard a third voice say, “This one’s still alive.”

“Anyone know these two?” demanded the second voice, probably the leader.

Sayyed felt himself pushed onto his back, and the fabric was yanked away from his face, jarring his aching head. The groan he tried to stifle slipped out of his clenched teeth.

Six faces peered down at him, smirking and merciless. “He’s Raid tribe, that’s all I know,” one dark face said. “He was probably looking for things to steal.”

“Raid,” another sneered. “Nothing but thieves and brigands. No wonder they do not follow the Path of Light and Truth.”

“Kill them,” ordered the leader.

Sayyed frantically tried to lick his lips, to swallow past a dry and bitter mouth. He had to take action now before the assassins slit his throat. Using all his will, he drew on the magic in the earth beneath him. He felt it surge into his body, a furious, energizing power that flowed through bone and muscle as easily as his own blood. He formed the magic into the only weapon he could use instinctively without forming a specific spell: the Trymian force.

He saw the thugs draw their knives, the long, fat-bladed weapons the Turics often used, and he pulled his arms down to his chest. His muscles tensed; his heart beat hard against his ribs. One man stepped close to grab Sayyed’s hair.

“Oh! Excuse me,” a boyish voice called cheerfully.

Every man whirled and looked up to see a short figure standing halfway down the hill.

“Excuse me,” the voice cried again. “I was just looking for my dog. He is big and brown and looks as ugly as you!” Swift as a hunter, the figure drew back his arm and fired a rock from a slingshot at the man closest to Sayyed. The missile struck the man’s temple with such a crack, he fell sprawling, dead before he knew what hit him.

The leader yelled a curse and sprang up the slope after the boy.

“Tassilio!” a new voice bellowed and, to the astonishment of everyone, a black-clad warrior lunged down the hill, his tulwar drawn and ready. He charged past he boy into the midst of the surprised men and swung his curved sword with both hands into the belly of the leader. The assassins hesitated only a heartbeat; then he four still on their feet drew their own blades, circled around their lone attacker, and rushed in like wolves.

Sayyed struggled desperately to sit up and free his bands. A pale blue aura formed around his fists from the power of the Trymian force, and he made use of a fraction of its searing energy to burn through the ropes his arms.

In that instant he heard the boy cry out and a dog bark. Looking around, he saw the boy run furiously down the hill toward the warrior with the sword. The black-clad man had injured a second thug, but the others had pressed him so closely he tripped over an outcropping and lay sprawled on his back. The assassin’s swords rose over his head.

Sayyed had lifted his hand to fire a blast of magic when suddenly horses’ hooves pounded on the hillside, and the enraged scream of a stallion interrupted the thugs’ intent. Two huge horses blacker than night, their eyes like moons of green fire, rushed into the three remaining attackers. The men screamed in fear and flung themselves away, but only one escaped the horses’ trampling hooves. That man tried to break past Sayyed to escape to the relative safety of the distant camp.

A blast of the Trymian force shot from the sorcerer’s hand, flared a fiery blue path through the darkness, and scorched into the chest of the last assassin. The thug crashed on his back, his robe smoking.

A strange stillness sank over the hollow. The dead lay motionless in the settling dust. The warrior leaned on the hilt of his sword and gasped for breath. His small companion stood just above him on the hill, his mouth open and his eyes bulging. His dog pressed close to his knees. The two black horses sniffed the dead men lying at their feet, then swung their great heads to look at Sayyed, who bent over his son.

“By all that’s holy,” a wondering voice said softly. “Sayyed. It is you.”

The sorcerer lifted his head. The voice, once familiar and remembered with pleasure, put a name to the unknown warrior. In the pale light of the icy stars, he saw a face he had not seen in twenty-six years: his brother Hajira, one year older than himself, the sixth son of the Raid-Ja and his wife, the clanswoman from Clan Ferganan.

They built a small fire in the hollow out of the way of the cool night wind. While Sayyed tended Rafnir, Hajira dragged the bodies out of sight into a thicket. Tassilio raced off to the distant camp and soon returned carrying a wedge of cheese, a box of sweet oatcakes, and a jug of
firza
, a drink made from fermented grain and dates. Rafnir was conscious by that time and nursing his pounding head by the fire. The two brothers sat on either side, unsure yet of what to say.

Grinning like a conspirator, Tassilio laid out his offerings with several plates and a pair of matching flagons.

Hajira rolled his eyes when he saw the things. “Tassilio may be son of the Shar-Ja, but he steals like a street urchin,” he said as the boy sat close beside him.

The boy grinned and winked at Sayyed with such intelligent mischief that the sorcerer began to seriously doubt the general belief that Tassilio was “simple.” Up close, the Shar-Ja’s son was rangy, athletic, and the image of his father, with a straight nose, strong jaw, and two huge, wary eyes that stared unwaveringly at the two sorcerers.

“You’re clansmen, aren’t you?” the boy said to Sayyed in Clannish. “Yet you speak Turic, ride with the caravan, and look like Hajira.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” Rafnir said, offering him a weak smile.

To the clansmen’s surprise, the boy slouched forward, letting his hair fall over his eyes. His mouth slackened into a loose-lipped grin, and the bright glint of awareness in his eyes dulled to a blank stare. He looked so much like the simpleton people thought him to be, Sayyed simply stared.

“It’s amazing what you can hear when people pretend you don’t exist,” Tassilio laughed. He straightened and as quickly snapped back into his alert, cheerful self,

Hajira stirred for the first time, “Tassilio was the one who saw the thugs jump you at the baggage wagons. He came to get me.”

Sayyed sipped his wine, letting the tart liquid soothe his dry and aching throat. He wondered where to go with this conversation. How far could he trust even a brother he had not seen in so long? Hajira knew him for what he was, and when they were boys Hajira would have died before betraying his brother. But what would this man do? Who was he now?

“How did you know I was here?” he asked Hajira after a short pause.

“I recognized you from that day on the riverbank,” Tassilio answered for his companion. “So I told Hajira you were in the caravan, and he told me to keep an eye on you.”

The Turic warrior lifted an eyebrow at this enthusiastic speech. He seemed to be as quiet and taciturn as the boy was voluble. “We’ve heard many tales about a half-breed sorcerer who rode with the Lady Gabria,” he said finally. “But Father would never allow your name to be spoken after you left. I did not realize it was you until tonight. We always thought you were dead.”

Sayyed shook his head at the memory of his father. A stern, unrelenting man, the Raid-Ja believed that as leader of the Raid tribe he had to follow the exact letter of the law. When his youngest son revealed the unexpected and forbidden talent to wield magic, Dultar sadly but mercilessly disinherited him and exiled him from the tribe. The hurt of that rejection had dulled over the years, and after a time Sayyed accepted the results of that exile with gratitude. If he had not fled to the Clans, he would not have met Gabria and Athlone, nor his beloved Tam, nor would he have his handsome, if rather battered-looking son. In gratitude to the Living God who had watched over him so well, he leaned over and affectionately squeezed Rafnir’s shoulder.

“Your son?” Hajira asked, eyeing his new nephew.

“Yes,” Sayyed said. He leaned forward to study this brother he had known so long ago. Hajira did not look very different. He had matured, of course, but he still wore his moustache long to help elongate his broad face. His wide-set eyes were deep and large above a hawk-nose and a strong jaw, and when he stood, he still topped Sayyed by several inches.

What had changed, and what disturbed Sayyed, was the cut of Hajira’s hair. His brother’s long, thick hair and the intricate knot of a tribesman had been shaved off close to his skull — a cut that was usually reserved as a punishment for some crime of dishonour.

Sayyed took another sip of the wine and said, “And what of you? If you have heard tales of me then half of them are probably true and you know my life. How is yours? Tell me of the family.”

Hajira laughed a short, sharp bark of amusement. “The family goes on as always. Alset is Raid-Ja now, and he is as unforgiving as Father ever was.”

“Father is dead?”

“Four years ago. He died in his sleep.”

“And Mother?”

“Well and happy and rejoicing in her grandchildren. She will be overjoyed to know you live.” He paused and glanced at the two Hunnuli standing protectively behind Sayyed and Rafnir before adding, “As for me, I chose to join the Shar-Ja’s guard, and there I have been for twenty years.”

Sayyed was impressed. The Shar-Ja’s personal guards were the elite warriors from every tribe. Initiates went through several years of rigorous training and conditioning and had to swear undying loyalty to the overlord. All would give their lives for the Shar-Ja. Almost unwillingly his gaze lifted to Hajira’s head, and his brow furrowed.

His brother recognized his unspoken question. He cocked a half-smile. “Things have been changing in Cangora the past two years. I made the mistake of voicing my opinion of Counsellor Zukhara rather forcefully. He could not dismiss me, but he had me reprimanded and transferred to guard Tassilio — a huge step-down in honour, he thought, sentenced to babysit the idiot.” He chuckled as he repeated the counsellor’s words in a good imitation of Zukhara’s sonorous voice.

A glow of humour lit like a lamp in Tassilio’s face.

“Smartest thing Zukhara ever did, and he doesn’t even know it,” Hajira went on. “This imp’s mother sent him to court a year ago. He took one look at the political situation and has been acting the fool ever since to save his hide. He is the accepted, right-born second son of the Shar-Ja, and his heir after Bashan. You saw what happened to the Shar-Yon.”

“The Fel Azureth have sworn to kill the Shar-Ja and all his offspring,” Tassilio said in a flat voice. “When Father got sick, I pretended to go crazy. The law protects lepers and fools.”

Sayyed blinked, both amazed at the boy’s wit and dismayed by the circumstances that drove him to such desperate measures. “What does your father think of your subterfuge?”

The boy looked away quickly, but not before Sayyed saw the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes. “I doubt Father has even noticed. He saw only Bashan.”

Sayyed sat straighter to draw the boy’s attention back to himself. “Who do you think killed the Shar-Yon?” he asked Hajira and Tassilio with deliberate emphasis. His brother and the boy, young as he was, would make good allies in the caravan, and Sayyed wanted to put to rest any suspicions they might have.