Sorcerer's Vendetta (The Secret of Zanalon) (5 page)

Rachel rolled her eyes.
A lot of men seem to feel that way.
But it was just a touch of her self-deprecating humor; she hadn't missed his little smile, at first, and she couldn't help smiling a little, too. 
Pleasantly surprised, medieval man?

Lifting his hand, he started to form a strange gesture with his fingers, then stopped as he apparently reconsidered.

"Well, then, wench, give me some light here, but make it stop that head-splitting keening. That is impressive magick for a non-practitioner. I have not seen the like, and I have seen much."

Haltingly, she approached him. It was probably not a good time to tell him she wasn't a wench, either. Of course, she realized that was an accepted manner of speaking from his time.

From his time? I certainly am accepting this well. I guess I always did want to believe that era really
was
a time of magic.
She was still stunned by all that was happening, but it was hard to deny that it really was.  With this man walking around speaking in a precursor to English that only a handful of people on the planet could have recognized now, it was clear he wasn't exactly from around these times.

Rachel had no idea what 'keening' he was talking about, but his comment about knowledge of magic clicked one mystery into place: the lack of armor. A
sorcerer
would not wear armor. Of course, that opened another mystery. A sorcerer normally wouldn't carry a sword, either.

She stood at his shoulder, directing the beam at the platform that was all that was left of her precious statue. Even kneeling, his presence seemed to tower over her.

"Can you read it?" she asked, bending to peer into his face.

The swordsman/sorcerer glanced at the flashlight, then gave her an annoyed look. He started to say something but stopped, mouth agape; his scowl twisted into an amused half-smile. With a soft snort and a shake of his head, he reached up to pluck the leaf from her glasses.

When he looked back at the writing, his lips tightened, his only response. Standing slowly, he looked around, studied his surroundings carefully. "Canny old thing," he mused. "Thou must cling to thy hope o' youth yet. Thou perceived it. 'Tis a time-jump he must needs have done." His smile was deadly, mirthless. "Mightily terrified o' my wrath, eh, Hafgan?"

Rachel, confused, focused on her own situation.
I would never believe this if I didn't see it.
She hugged herself, the beam of light cast heedless, and stared off into the darkness shrouding the tree walls.
No one's going to believe this.

The sorcerer turned around, looking over her head as if she weren't there, and reached for a red stone that hung from a gold chain at his chest.

A sound came from the direction of camp. Suddenly the urgency of her situation dawned on her. Rachel killed the flashlight.

"Oh Lord, the crew. They're coming! No one's going to believe this." She shoved at him, back toward the pedestal. Off guard, he stepped back.

"No one's gonna believe this. You gotta go back! You gotta go back!" Rachel grabbed at his arms, trying to arrange him again.

"Unhand me, wench!" he thundered, breaking loose of her flailing grip. He pushed past her and ducked through the opening.

Rachel stood agape.
What the hell was I doing? All motion, no notion …
Pulling herself together, she rushed through behind him. She stared at his cloaked back, as he paused, orienting himself, then continued toward the path opening.

"I have no such intention," he said. "Must needs I find my murderer."

"Wait a minute, you can't just leave! Your murderer? You mean the one who made you into that statue? Wait, you can't leave, I have to find Rollin! And ... Oh, come on, you're ruining my career, too!"

He stopped, looked back at her, humphed, and started away again.

My career? What was I thinking?
Rachel hurried after him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Her voice was low now, the approaching noise close.

This time he paused, turned on his heel slowly. His eyes glinted in the moonlight, narrowing slightly, as he focused on her.

"What year is this?"

"The year of our Lord 2010," she snapped.

His reaction was satisfying. He stood, staring.

"Oh, God. The Era o' Enslavement. The elementals ..." he mumbled. "This is a terrible age for us. Why would Hafgan – ?"

Rachel gave an exasperated sigh, caught his arm as she spoke, interrupting him. "Come on, you're going to need help."

This HAS to have something to do with Rollin's disappearance. And when I find him and we go back to our studies together, well, maybe I can get this magic man to do a duplicate or something. In any case, we'd better get moving.

She pulled him through the shadowy trees, planning to double back to one of the trucks. He allowed himself to be led, silently.

Her mind was moving fast, now. Rachel knew the crew would have to think the statue was stolen and as she was the only one around at the time, suspiciously late at night ... Well, the crew might have trouble believing it, knowing her, but the police would say it was an inside job. Unless she could make them think she was in pursuit of the thieves. And with Rollin missing, there could be something even darker involved than theft. What if they thought
she
had something to do with his disappearance – perhaps more a rivalry than a partnership?

They plunged down the path through the blue night. With a hasty prayer or two, they made it around to where the jeep and the covered truck were parked. The truck was backed in facing the road, having just been unloaded.

"We've got to get out of here quick!" she told the sorcerer. "Get in the truck."

The sorcerer did a double take. "The what? Set thy course, wench. Dost thou desire to run or hide?"

"Oh dammit, get in the truck--er,
this
thing," she hissed, hauling open the door on the blind side to the tents as quietly as possible.

Reluctantly, he began to obey, but he stopped halfway on the seat, gripping the door frame like a cat being shoved into a vet's cage. He looked down at her, his confusion obvious.

"I will summon the horses. Must needs we ride, not take time to hitch them up." His eyes went distant for a second, then cleared. He frowned. "Where are the horses?"

Rachel stared at him, puzzled but too preoccupied to wonder much. She turned to the jeep.

"Wait," she ordered. Quickly, silently, she slipped back to the jeep, reached in and took the key from the visor and tossed it under the seat. Just a mishap to buy time. Out here, no one worried about theft and the vehicles needed to be available to all. Rachel said a prayer of thanks for that policy and caromed back to the truck where the sorcerer waited.

Rachel skidded to a halt, staring up at him. She shook her hands and bared her teeth in a frustrated moan, realizing her all-too-American mistake.
Right side, not left. I should have gone to the other side.

Behind her she heard excited voices, the crew coming down the path. The sound struck her like a cattle prod.

She shoved the sorcerer. "Get out of my way! Move it!"

He had no time to react before she hit him like a linebacker and scrambled over him in a flurry of knees and elbows, ignoring his grunts. Once settled in front of the wheel, Rachel tossed the flashlight to the floorboard and reached for the key at the visor there. She glanced over at him, glaring at her.

"Shut the door."

He hesitated but did as she demanded, indignity in his eyes. Apparently, he was not addressed in this manner, much less by a mere female. Choking back her own indignation, Rachel focused on not dropping the key. Jamming it in the ignition, she twisted and the truck flared into life.

"Aaaaahaaahhhaaaahhh!"

The sorcerer clasped his hands to the sides of his head, grimacing, his whole body taut as a board. Rachel froze in spite of her urgency, staring. "What in the world?!"

"The screams, they are screaming, I cannot bear it!"

Beyond him, through the truck's open window, she saw a lantern-backlit figure burst from one of the tents. Rachel bit her lip. She had to move. She threw the truck in gear and hit the gas, slung dirt as she muscled the truck into a U-turn and headed for the highway. Beside her, the sorcerer's body bowed in a jolt of pain, his eyes rolled back and then he went limp, crumpling over on the wide seat.

Her brilliant plan, to hang out the window as she moved out and yell something to the effect of "They went thataway," was forgotten. She reached over to touch at his throat, holding her own breath and praying for his, studying his chest for movement.

"Oh, God, don't be dead.  Please don't be dead. That would
really
mess up my day. "

There was a strong pulse. He had passed out, God only knew why. She sighed, relieved, though aware as she pulled out on open highway that she had not dissipated the cloud of guilt. It would follow them.

Chapter 4 – REVELATIONS

Darkness... darkness...

What happened to me?

Where am I?

A shimmer, a spark – a blue flame hanging in a blackness beyond anything he had ever experienced, surrounded by shining, yet it was something more than a delicate, fragile flame, it hung between being a flame and an eye. The eye of God. Peace. And then a snap back to darkness ... Nothingness ...

Am I dead? And ... Who ... am ... I?

Darkness ... nothingness ...

I … am ...

… a consciousness ...

I was ... I am ... Rollin ... Ambrose ...

I can't feel anything ... I can't ... move... I can't see ...

What happened to me ...?

Rachel put numbers on the odometer all night, wanting only to get as far away from the camp as possible. Her magic man slept on, his breathing steady, while the truck plunged through the rolling countryside, racing along on the ribbon of road, penned in by ageless hedge-rows. Occasionally the road was more open, stretching through pastures that could have been in Texas, bounded by plain barbed-wire. Clouds and mist moved in; she counted herself lucky to have glimpsed the moon, earlier.

From what she had heard the sorcerer musing, she knew he was after someone named Hafgan, probably for turning him to stone, but she wasn't sure why he would figure he could find him here and now. And apparently some witch had really ticked him off, too, but she wasn't sure how that fit in. She remembered what he'd said about "time-jumping"; that was a real mind-blower. 

At sunrise, Rachel pulled down the longest wooded dirt road she could find, then pulled the truck deep into the trees to hide. She had no money for a hotel, having left her purse in her tent at the camp; all she had was a bit of change she had stuffed in her pocket from a travel snack earlier. She crawled into the back seat and fell instantly asleep.

Rachel awoke at sunset, clawing her way to consciousness, disoriented. She squinted into the front seat. The sorcerer was gone.

Now totally panicked, she slammed out the passenger side, not even stopping to get her glasses from the dashboard. Then she heard rain-muffled leaves crunching, someone walking through the woods. The sound was distant and fading.

That's got to be him. He's going after his rival. Lord, he might be able to summon the guy here, right now. A sorcerer's battle!

She paused, chewing her bottom lip, and sank her hands in her hair.
Should I follow? They might nuke the woods or something.

Rachel dropped her hands with a shrug.
So what? I can't lose him, he's my only lead to find Rollin. And I'm not missing this!
I She bolted after him, afraid she would lose him in the deepening gloom.

Light...

Sounds...

Feelings...

Scents...

Tastes...

Slowly they returned. He was in a body but the body was a prison. He was detached, floating, a spark of consciousness, helpless to communicate, to influence what he was beginning to perceive around him.

So he watched, listened, learned more about where he was and more. And struggled to take control, to break free from this cage of flesh.

Her back against a tree, Rachel poked herself at the bridge of her nose.
Oh pooh, I forgot my glasses.
Thank God her prescription wasn't terribly strong. Carefully she peeked around the tree trunk. What she saw, slightly blurred, shocked her.

The sorcerer was standing with his back to her, having an animated argument in nonsense syllables. With thin air.

Lord, maybe he's just a nut.

For the first time, she doubted.
Maybe the people who got Rollin knocked me out and stole the statue and hypnotized me and ... Or maybe he's an escaped lunatic and ... Oh pooh, maybe
I'm
a nut.