Irons in the Fire (52 page)

"Come on." Sorgrad snapped his fingers at Tathrin.

"What do you want me for?" he asked, startled.

Sorgrad looked at him, exasperated. "To pass back whatever we find to Aremil so he can tell Charoleia."

"Discreetly," Evord reminded them both with a meaningful look.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Tathrin

Captain-General Evord's Camp, in the Uplands East of Verlayne,

26
^th
of For-Autumn

Sorgrad cut swiftly between the tents towards Arest's wyvern pennant, Gren hurrying along at his elbow. Tathrin followed unwillingly. As they reached the open space ringed by the Wyvern Hunters' tents, he heard a familiar voice.

"Next time don't force it."

"Reher!" Tathrin had more than half expected that the blacksmith would think better of using his illicit magecraft to further their conspiracy and cut loose from Arest. But Reher was standing by a fire, his anvil and tools to hand. "You found some honest work, then?"

"For the present." Shirtless beneath his leather jerkin despite the chill in the air, Reher looked more muscular than ever. "What's the news from the south?"

"Later," Sorgrad interrupted. "Where's the captain?"

"Arest?" Reher tossed a newly mended cooking pot to a sullen youth. "Out trapping scrawny goats with Zeil and some others."

"Sheepshit," Sorgrad cursed.

"Goatshit, surely?" Gren chipped in, irrepressible.

Sorgrad shot him a lacerating glance. "Reher, who went out last night and didn't come back?"

Reher weighed a hammer in one hand. "Macra and his tent-mates."

"They wouldn't desert." In the blink of an eye, Gren was wholly serious. "Are Arest and Zeil really hunting dinner or trying to track them?"

Reher shrugged. "A little of each."

"Which way did they go?" Sorgrad demanded.

"We've had warnings of spies," Tathrin explained quickly.

There was a moment's pause before Reher spoke. "I'll show you."

Gren threw his bag and blanket roll at the sullen youth. "You, find a tent for our gear."

"Put their gear with mine," Reher advised. "This way."

Tathrin hastily donned his sword and dumped his baggage. Hopefully the discipline in Arest's camp meant he'd come back to find his possessions intact.

Reher lengthened his stride as he led them up a narrow gully. Tathrin felt the uneven ground pulling painfully at his leg muscles. At the top, three yellow-headed sentries appeared out of a fold in the stony ground. Gren said something and they retreated with a brief nod.

Tucking the hammer he still held inside his jerkin, Reher used his hands to negotiate the steepest section. He led them across a rocky shoulder of barren ground before pointing down a treacherous slope towards another valley. "That's where Arest said they were going to hunt."

Tathrin was surprised how soon the valley sheltering Evord's army dropped out of sight and hearing. Just how far were they from the nearest road or village or even an isolated upland farmstead? Tens of leagues, surely?

Any spies combing these trackless lands would only stumble upon Evord's encampment by accident. Unless they stumbled across some foraging swordsmen and beat the truth out of them. Was that what had happened?

"Have you tried scrying?" Despite his lesser height, Sorgrad had no difficulty keeping up with Reher.

Reher shook his head. "It's water magic and my affinity's with fire."

"I'm born to fire and air and I learned." Sorgrad reached for his silver dish. "When we have a few moments to spare, I'll show you the trick of it."

"You think we'll have any spare moments this side of Solstice?" Reher watched with ill-concealed curiosity as the Mountain Man poured water and dripped ink.

"Who knows?" Sorgrad peered into the luminous bowl. "Now where do you suppose that is?

Tathrin held back, the memory of his nausea still swirling in his gut.

Reher looked, his black brows knitting. "They're there, are they?"

"Hidden and not moving." Sorgrad looked bleak.

Gren peered into the greenish light. "That's no place to be planning an ambush."

"I know those trees," Reher said suddenly. "This way."

He scrambled down the slope and cut across the stream carving a glistening cleft through the dark rocks. His long legs easily negotiated the awkward gaps between the largest stones.

Tathrin was glad he was tall enough to do the same. Watching Gren jump from rock to rock made his blood run cold. One slip and the Mountain Man risked a fall to injury or even death.

Unless his brother was helping him keep his footing? Tathrin watched open-mouthed as Sorgrad walked straight out across a precipitous plunge, a faint beam of sapphire light supporting his feet.

Reher was watching, too. "That's another neat trick."

"Later," Sorgrad promised. "Are those the trees?"

"I'd say so," Reher confirmed grimly.

"Come on, lad." Gren drew his sword.

Tathrin did the same and gripped the hilt as they advanced on the thicket. "You want me to fight?"

But there was no sign of any enemy. Sorgrad and Gren began cutting at the undergrowth choking the stunted thorn trees. Reher simply tore the sprays apart, his hands seemingly impervious to the lacerating prickles. Tathrin circled around to start clearing the far side.

"Here." All too soon, Gren stopped and shook his head.

"All of them?" Sorgrad stepped closer to see.

Five bodies had been dumped in a deep crack where a thorn tree had taken root. All had been stripped to their shirts, so it was easy to see how viciously they'd been hacked by merciless swords. Two pallid faces were looking upwards. One was frozen in surprise, the other struggling with what looked like puzzled recognition. Tathrin was only thankful he didn't know either of them, and for the cold weather, although carrion flies were already gathering.

As Sorgrad knelt and reached down, Tathrin thought he was going to close the corpse's eyes. He flinched with pointless sympathy as the Mountain Man poked his forefinger into one unseeing eye instead.

"Still moist." Sorgrad tried to move a dead hand. "But stiffened."

"So they died some time last night." Gren's blue gaze was murderous. "How long to catch whoever did it?"

"Perhaps we should have asked Aremil to send us an Artificer after all." Sorgrad glanced briefly at Tathrin. "If Vanam's scholars can read the last moments of the dead in the same way as the
sheltya
." His gaze switched to Reher. "I know you've shunned Hadrumal's training, but do you know anything of necromancy?"

"Nothing, and I wouldn't countenance such sacrilege." Reher stared down, grim-faced. "I can help you regardless. I mended Macra's belt buckle and drew the wire to make links that half the camp has patched their chain mail with."

"But you can't scry," Gren pointed out tersely.

"I can find any piece of metal I've ever worked. If it's close enough, I can call it to my hand." Reher shrugged his massive shoulders. "I thought all blacksmiths could, till my father told me different."

"I've always said there's more useful magic outside Hadrumal's libraries than in them." Sorgrad was keenly interested. "You can show me the trick of that, if you like."

Tathrin retreated from the carnage. "If they died last night, the killers could be leagues away by now."

"Not if they're spies." Gren was adamant. "They won't have got anything out of Macra worth taking back to their paymaster."

"True enough." Sorgrad looked speculatively at Tathrin. "They'll be looking for some other pigeon to pluck."

"What?" Tathrin took another pace backwards.

"Up in the mountains, if a wolf's raiding the flocks, a goatherd tethers a dry nanny out overnight." Gren's smile was far from reassuring. "When her noise draws the wolf, the goatherd draws his bow."

"I'm not a goat," Tathrin retorted.

"We won't let them kill you." Sorgrad looked at him unblinking. "You're our only link with Aremil."

"They won't be expecting magecraft," Reher pointed out.

"If you haven't got the stones for it, go back to the camp. I can play the victim." Gren smiled unpleasantly. "Of course, these spies might catch up with you on the way. Then you'll be all alone without any of us to pull your feet from the fire."

"Think what a tale you'll have for Failla," Sorgrad mused. "Such a hero."

Tathrin stiffened. "I'm in this for the sake of all Lescari, not just to impress Failla."

"Good," Sorgrad said briskly. "Reher, which way?"

Tathrin opened his mouth to protest that he hadn't agreed. He closed it again. The others were already walking away. He followed reluctantly.

Leaving the valley where Macra and his men had died, Reher led them across another shoulder of barren turf. Looking around as he paused to catch his breath, Tathrin observed how this cluster of high hills was fringed with deep valleys. Here they ran down to a broad vale where he could see the silver gleam of a river. On the far side of the low ground, another range of steep summits rose jaggedly into the sky.

"Whoever these bastards are, they're good." Gren was studying the ground. "There's no trail to speak of."

"This way." Reher didn't slow as they crossed the steep rocky slope to the next gully.

Sorgrad scowled. "Tathrin, you're skylined."

Reher had dropped to his hands and knees to avoid being silhouetted against the pale clouds. Tathrin ducked hastily, following Sorgrad in a crouch that made his back ache.

As they slipped down a mossy incline, Reher paused, his eyes disconcertingly vacant. Then his dark gaze sharpened and he pointed to a distant furze brake. "Down there."

"Couldn't it be Arest and his men?" Tathrin wondered aloud.

Reher shook his head. "Not wearing Macra's belt buckle."

Tathrin wasn't convinced, but nor was he inclined to argue the point. Besides, if it was Arest, he would be perfectly safe, wouldn't he? "So what do I do?"

"Walk down there looking like you'll tell all you know as soon as someone holds a knife to your throat." Gren unsheathed two viciously curved daggers. "We'll do the rest."

"Reher?" Tathrin turned to ask the smith. He wasn't there.

"Just get on with it." Sorgrad's voice echoed oddly from the empty air.

"Gren?" Tathrin looked around wildly but the other Mountain Man had disappeared.

"We'll be close by," Reher's gruff voice promised.

Tathrin took a breath to slow his pounding heart. There was no hint of magelight, no rustle of unseen footsteps among the tussocks of coarse grass. How could three men, one of them Reher's size, just vanish into thin air? Wizardry in tavern ballads and festival tales was all very entertaining. No story ever said how thoroughly unnerving it was to be around magical workings.

An unseen hand shoved him hard in the small of the back. He had to step forward or fall over. Gripping his sword, he started walking down the narrow valley.

Where were these murderous spies? He tried not to look too obviously at the patch of spiny greenery that Reher had pointed out. Showing undue interest in one particular furze brake would betray him, surely? Besides, the sentries around Captain-General Evord's encampment could hide behind two stones and a fallen leaf. These spies could be anywhere. He slowed involuntarily.

What if they shot arrows from cover, like hunters stalking a deer? If Macra had already told them everything they wanted to know, then he was just an inconvenience to be swiftly eliminated. He forced himself to walk onwards, breathing harder than the exertion of walking downhill warranted.

Unable to resist glancing covertly at the furze again, he blinked. The spiny tangles were far less clear than they had been. He looked up at the sky. It was still too early for evening mists to be thickening. More magic? His grip on his sword tighter still, he walked on, bowels clenching, throat dry. The wind blew his hair into his eyes and he brushed it quickly aside.

Halfway down from the head of the gully to the furze brake, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Movement coming uphill, not down. Tense as a hunted hare, he startled as the branches of a stunted blackthorn shivered on the other side of the track. He heard the sound of a boot nail on a stone. He searched the undergrowth desperately. Who was lying in wait? He didn't dare turn and see if someone was creeping up behind him. If he did, he was convinced someone would rush to attack him from the front.

The brambles vanished in a white haze. For a horrible instant, Tathrin thought Sorgrad was sweeping him away with his magic again. In the next breath, he realized it was just mist wrapping around him. But magecrafted mist, it had to be. No normal fog would rise this fast. Already he couldn't see his feet.

Somewhere behind him, a scream tore through the whiteness. Tathrin whirled around, sword at the ready. Cries of alarm sounded on all sides. He tried to make out the shouted words, but to no avail. Every voice was twisted, not merely by the fog but magically muffled, he was sure of it.