Protector Of The Grove (Book 2) (25 page)

“Yntri has been teaching Beth binding magic and this was one of her first projects,” Hilt said. “It’s made of deerskin with a silk lining and she sewed in three different pockets where he could store different types of seeds or nuts. The bottom is covered in thick fur.”

Squirrel squeaked in excitement and dived inside, rustling about and chittering at the things he found. Fist peered in and watched him with a wide grin on his face. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Justan noted the runework stamped into the leather. “You said she made it with binding magic?”

Hilt was a bit hesitant. “Yeah, she bound it with a spirit that has agreed to keep squirrel comfortable whether it’s cold or hot out.”

Squirrel poked his head out and chattered something. Fist looked at Hilt. “He says that the fur in the bottom is squirrel fur.”

“That’s because the soul that’s bound to the pouch is a squirrel,” Hilt replied. “Beth said it was very nice when she spoke to it and it wanted to be helpful, especially to another squirrel . . .” His voice faltered and he shrugged helplessly. “Hey, I agree. It sounds a bit weird, but she made me promise to give it to you.”

Fist and Squirrel blinked and looked at each other. Then Squirrel chattered something and ducked back inside. “He likes it!” Fist said. Hilt’s shoulders sagged in relief.

Fist took Squirrel’s old pouch off from over his shoulder and pulled the new one on. The leather strap was set at just the perfect length so that the pouch hung at Fist’s waist. “Tell Beth thank you so much!”

“You can tell her yourself once we get to Malaroo,” Hilt replied.

Fist’s smile faltered. “Oh, um, about that-.”

“You’ve decided not to come,” Justan said in understanding.

Fist scratched his head. “Well that’s what I had decided. But that was before. Now that I know how bad the attacks are getting, how can I stay away?”

“He’s not ready, son,” said Darlan, who had been standing to the side listening. “I’m sorry, but Fist is at a point in his magic training that’s crucial. I’ve been teaching him some dangerous spells and he doesn’t quite have them down yet.”

“Then I won’t use those ones,” Fist said.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” she snapped. “You’d try to use them the first time there was a battle.”

“It’s okay,” said Justan, though the thought of being without the ogre’s support hurt. “We’ve already killed all the basilisks anyway. From this point on it’s just going to be about traveling down to meet Jhonate’s family.”

“I’m sorry, Justan,” Fist said and Justan could feel his guilt through the bond.

“Very good, dear,” Darlan said and kissed Justan on the cheek. “Oh, before I forget, I have a letter for you. One of the guards handed it to me just as we were leaving. He said it arrived from the academy late last night.”

She pulled a letter out of her robes and handed it to him. The envelope was sealed with a wax sigil Justan wasn’t familiar with. It looked like the head of a hawk. Justan broke the seal and pulled out the letter within. The handwriting was quite flowery and elaborate. It read:

To Justan, son of Faldon the Fierce. Or more currently, Sir Edge, or Master Edge, or whatever other name you have happened to pick up.

If, by whatever happenstance, you survived my little trick and are alive enough to read this letter, greetings! I just wanted to take this opportunity to formally introduce myself. I am your killer. This may sound strange to you because if you are reading this you are alive, but your murder is an inevitability. To be clear, I am not done hounding you. Once I accept a contract, I see it to the end, no matter how many servants I have to send or even if I have to handle it myself. I will keep coming, and if I have to, I’ll kill all your friends and bonded and every old elf that stands between us. Please don’t take this personally.

I will see you in Malaroo,

Vahn

“Just let me go!” the Khalpan merchant cried, black tears staining his cheeks from the makeup around his eyes. “Let me live and I’ll make it worth your while. Most of my money is back at my shop in Dremald. I can lead you to it.” The bandits had the portly man tied against the side of his tall box wagon, the corpses of his bodyguards piled on the snowy ground next to him.

“Shut up, we’re counting,” said one of the bandits as he walked by. He delivered a ringing slap, causing the merchant’s sobs to multiply.

The other bandits laughed as they went through the merchant’s bags. They found mostly silks and perfumes, not much of the hard coin they wanted, but there was a lot for them to be happy about. The perfumes would sell well in Dremald and one of the men knew of a fence in Sampo that would take the silks for a decent price if they weren’t soiled too badly.

In addition, as their leader had pointed out earlier, they now had a wagon and four live horses to pull it. With a fresh coat of paint and a change of wardrobe, they could pass as merchants themselves. The soldiers that patrolled the road wouldn’t be such a problem anymore.

“Hey, look what I found!” Shouted their leader, his breath steaming as he came out of the rear door of the wagon. He was a muscular man with a goatee and long matted hair. He had been wearing a bearskin coat when he went in. Now he wore a fancy winter coat with silk embroidery. He showed the rest of the bandits the small box in his hand. “It was hidden in the floor beneath his bunk.”

The merchant cried out again. “You mustn’t. Those belong to a very important customer. If they go missing, you’ll find yourselves hunted down-!”

“Jewels!” the leader announced and the men cheered.

“You aren’t listening to me!” the merchant insisted.

One of the men backhanded him again. “Can we kill him now?”

“No, you idiot,” said their leader. He turned his back on the merchant and put his finger to his lips, giving them a meaningful look. “We might let him go if he tells us where he’s hid his coin.”

“Oh, right,” said the man with an evil grin.

The merchant wasn’t fooled and began sobbing again.

Do we go now
? Gwyrtha asked eagerly.

Deathclaw glanced down at the men from his perch in a tree above the bandit camp and sent her a brief chirp through the bond, instructing her to stay put. She had insisted on climbing a tree just as he had, a concept he found ridiculous for a creature her size. The tree Gwyrtha was in hung out over the wagon and her considerable weight threatened to bring the branch down.

Even in her smaller and faster form she was ungainly, but at least she knew how to stay still. He could respect her proficiency as a hunter. She had willed the color of her scales to change to white and it was difficult to make out in the darkness. From below she would simply look like a large buildup of snow.

Do not move yet. I am still conversing with Justan
, Deathclaw told her. Their conversation had been going on for nearly a half hour now. The majority of that time had been taken up by Deathclaw chastising Justan for his lack of communication. Justan’s excuse had been ridiculous. Speaking to a tree? Weren’t his pack members more important than such nonsense?

Deathclaw returned his attention to Justan’s channel through the bond.
Then the ogre is not coming
?

No
. Justan said.
He’s too busy with his studies at the
Mage
School
. He will need to wait and come down with my mother for the wedding
.

This is not right
, Deathclaw replied sternly.
Fist is a soldier in the pack. He is needed at your side where his talents can be used, not sitting and listening to puny wizards babble
.

I have given him my okay
, Justan replied. He paused for a moment as he thought of how to best put it.
Can’t you see how much more useful he will be to the pack once he perfects his magic
?

Perhaps
, Deathclaw admitted. When the ogre added electricity to his attacks he was quite formidable.
Though time for such training should wait until you are not being attacked by assassins
.

Justan didn’t have an argument for that one.
Well, that just means that you two need to reach me all the sooner. Where are you anyway? Hilt wants to leave the
Mage
School
in two days
.

Can we attack now
? Gwyrtha asked impatiently.
I think they will kill the man
.

Deathclaw opened his eyes again and saw that she was right. The bandits were advancing on the merchant with knives drawn, threatening him, but he wasn’t talking. They would likely start torturing him soon. Unfortunately, Deathclaw was still talking with his pack leader.
My mission is to kill the bandits only. We are not here for the man
.

He hadn’t intended to stop at all. Getting back to Justan was his highest priority. But this ambush had been an opportunity he couldn’t resist. His mission with Hugh had been to seek out and destroy groups just like this. They were foul remnants of Ewzad Vriil’s rabble of an army that had decided to ravage the countryside instead of returning home.

Justan would save him
, Gwyrtha said, readying herself to leap down. The branch she was on swayed, giving a creak.

Deathclaw
? Justan asked.
You’re not paying attention. Is something going on
?

It is a minor thing
, Deathclaw replied. There were over twenty men below, but he had surprise on his side. Besides, he didn’t have to kill them all, just most of them. The rest would likely scatter.

Gwyrtha was right, though. If Justan knew the situation below, he would already have attacked. Likely Hugh the Shadow would have too. Humans had a strange affection for helpless members of their kind that went beyond Deathclaw’s pragmatic nature.

With a hissing sigh, Deathclaw told Gwyrtha,
Very well. On my signal
. To Justan, he said,
I must go now. We are near Dremald. We will proceed to you with much haste
.

Alright
, Justan said, his voice a bit suspicious.
I suppose I’ll talk to y-.

Deathclaw cut him off and focused on the enemy below. The bandit’s leader had grasped the merchant’s hand and was placing a knife against his thumb, threatening to cut off his fingers one by one unless he told them where his coin was hidden.

Deathclaw slowly drew Star from its sheath at his back. Then he eased forward, gripping the branch with the claws on his feet. He focused in his battle senses, slowing the world around him until the men below moved as if wading through deep water.
Now
.

Deathclaw landed silently among the bandits, striking out as he hit the ground. His tail swung out, its barbed end slashing the throat of one bandit, while at the same time Deathclaw whipped Star out in a broad swipe, slicing into three men. It was late at night and the sword was at the height of its power. Wherever the blade cut flesh, flames sprouted, cauterizing the wounds and leaving glowing embers behind.

Gwyrtha’s arrival was not so quiet. As she made to leap, the branch beneath her broke and she plummeted to the top of the boxed wagon. The roof collapsed under her weight and she fell inside.

The bandits cried out in alarm and drew weapons. Most of them had not seen Deathclaw yet and were looking at the caved-in roof of the wagon, but those that did see the raptoid were gripped by fear.

Deathclaw was humanoid in form, but he had a long tail tipped with a wicked barb and long black claws on his hands and feet. His new lips were pulled back to show a mouthful of sharp teeth. Even in the chill of winter he wore nothing but the sword sheath slung over his back and a bandolier filled with throwing knives.

 “Monster!” one man shouted and the screaming men with the flaming wounds agreed, repeating the phrase. Another of the men said, “It’s one of the master’s creations!”

Deathclaw did nothing to dissuade them. In a way they were right. Their former master had given him his current shape. Without so much as a pause, he continued to lay about him with his formidable weapons. His first thought with so many foes was to sow chaos and his strikes weren’t solely fatal. He cut hamstrings, took out joints and knees, and left burning wounds in whatever part of the bandits’ bodies he could strike.

It took Gwyrtha a moment to twist around inside the mess the wagon had become. The rear door was too narrow for her wide body, but she burst through in a shower of splinters, taking the door frame with her. Letting out a primal roar, she ignored the rectangle of wood stuck around her hips and jumped for the first bandit she saw.

Gwyrtha’s fighting style was much different than Deathclaw’s. Where the raptoid danced among the enemy, leaving wounded and burning victims, Gwyrtha pounced on them one-by-one, shredding each man with teeth and claws before moving on. Soon the door frame broke apart, littering the ground along with the bodies of her victims.

The camp was in disarray. A brave few charged in to fight, but the majority of them ran into the night, not bothering to retrieve any belongings. Better to take their chances alone in the cold.

Deathclaw didn’t meet much of a challenge until he felt an arrow pierce his chest. It struck him on his left side, under his arm. The arrowhead sliced between two ribs and lodged in his lung. Deathclaw hissed and whirled, leaving another man burning from a sliced belly as he looked for the archer.

The bowman was on the far side of the fire at the furthest possible point from either Deathclaw or Gwyrtha. He was already drawing another arrow. Deathclaw darted at him and leapt over the fire. The man fired while Deathclaw was mid-leap.

With his intensified focus, Deathclaw saw the arrow coming. He could not avoid it completely, but he contorted his body in the air so that the arrow did not strike him in the head, but sunk into his right shoulder instead. Deathclaw hit the ground and brought his sword up, feeling the metal of the arrow’s tip grinding in his shoulder joint. Deathclaw muted the pain in his mind.

The archer saw that he didn’t have time to fire another arrow. In one smooth motion, he dropped his bow and drew a sword from a sheath at his hip. By his stance, Deathclaw could see that the man was well trained. He brought his sword up to meet Deathclaw’s strike, deflecting the blow.

Deathclaw understood that he was at a disadvantage when in a fight with an accomplished swordsman. He was good with a sword, but that was not his strength. In addition, the shoulder wound was in his sword arm and his left lung was filling with blood.

The man went on the attack, swinging his sword down low. Deathclaw brought his own blade down in time to block, then leaned forward and coughed, spewing a gout of blood into the archer’s eyes.

The man reeled back and Deathclaw kicked out, his sharp claws tearing deep gashes in the man’s groin. Then Gwyrtha lunged in from the side, bearing the man down under her, her razor teeth descending on the man’s throat.

Deathclaw hissed as he reached up and tore the arrow out of his shoulder joint. He willed the body to focus on healing the wound and looked around the rest of the camp. Most of the wounded had died from their injuries or had been carried off by comrades, but a few lay writhing on the ground. None of them were a threat. He estimated that he and Gwyrtha had taken down fifteen of the twenty two bandits.

Only one of them remained standing. It was their leader. He had pressed himself up against the wagon, his knife held to the merchant’s throat.

“Stay back!” the leader shouted, his eyes wide.

What shall we do
? Gwyrtha asked as she came to his side, her jaws covered in gore. She really wanted a drink, something to wash the taste of human blood from her mouth.

That man can wait a moment
, Deathclaw replied through the bond.

He turned his attention to the arrow in his side. He had few options. He could tear it out, leaving an even larger wound in his lung for his body to heal or . . . He focused in on the nerves around the wound, feeling the extent of the damage. Then he reached down and grasped the arrow’s shaft. He gurgled in pain as he gave the arrow an experimental pull. His body had already begun healing the area and unfortunately the archer had used a barbed arrow. Yanking it out would be unpleasant indeed.

Locking his jaw, he pulled the arrow out as far as he dared without further tearing his lung. Then he broke the shaft close to his skin. With one long claw, he poked the stub of the shaft into the wound until it fell inside his lung. He would simply stop using that lung until it healed. Then he would cough up the arrowhead. He willed his body to close the wound.

“Why did you come?” The leader asked. “The master is dead. I did nothing wrong!”

Deathclaw licked his new lips and approached the man slowly, giving him a toothy smile. Gwyrtha walked at his side, her body growing in size with each step. “I do not do this for Ewzad Vriil, human.”

“Stay back or I’ll slit his throat!” the leader threatened. The merchant cried out as the tip of the knife broke his skin, causing blood to well up around the blade.