Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (34 page)

“Apparently some town tried to hang him at noon today and he destroyed half their town square in response.”

“Bloody fool!” Max declared, barely keeping his voice down. “He’s stirred up the hornets’ nest now.”

Falon would have felt elated that Michael was well if he had not managed to get himself into mortal danger again. Men! Leave them alone for a minute and they will find something else to get into!

“We have to go get them,” Falon said emphatically.

“Them?” Max asked.

“I searched the city for Garen and learned he left several days ago. I think he got tired of waiting and went into Valan searching for us.”

“Impetuous boys,” Jorgen growled. “When I get my hands on them they will wish the crazies had finished them off!”

“I can think of someone else with a knack for being impetuous,” Max replied, shooting a sly grin at Jorgen.

Jorgen grimaced. “Point taken. Who better to teach them about jumping in too deep? And they don’t have the luxury of a healer nearby to save their tails.”

“Perhaps they managed to meet halfway and they’re headed here now,” Max suggested.

“Marla would never send Michael north. She would send him to the Underground.”

She quickly explained what the Underground was and the location they used to cross the Kisenar River.

Max looked at Jorgen. “Think you can find us a boat?”

“The taverns near the docks should be full by now,” Jorgen mused, “shouldn’t be too difficult to find a captain sailing tomorrow. How are we going to find the boys?”

“We sail to this Underground rendezvous point and go from there,” Max replied.

“I think I can do better than that,” Falon said, pulling out her medallion.

C
HAPTER
35

Extra Muscle

Falon met Max and Jorgen early the next morning, the aroma of bacon coating the air in the common room.

“We have to leave the horses,” Jorgen told her as they walked out the inn’s front door where only Caballus stood waiting. “The boat is loaded with goods. I had to pay a hefty price to get the captain to make room for Caballus.”

“Don’t worry,” Max added, noticing her concern. “We’ll get new ones when we take leave of the ship.”

“What if Michael,” she looked around as if someone would hear his name and make a connection to the man on the wanted posters, “what if he’s at the crossing? We’ll be able to get off, right?”

“Sure,” Jorgen replied, stepping lithely around a puddle. “You might have to get wet, but you can disembark anytime you wish. All the more reason to travel light.”

“If Michael is at the crossing, you and I will jump ship and join him,” Max explained. “Jorgen will sail to the next town, buy horses and come back for us.”

“What if he’s on the Valan side?” Falon asked.

Jorgen grunted and Max glanced at him, flustered. “One obstacle at a time, my dear. One obstacle at a time.”

At the docks an old, grizzled man with a white, scrubby beard and head of hair to match greeted them. His calloused hand felt rough but deftly gentle as he shook Falon’s hand.

“Mornin’ to ya, and a fine one tit tis,” he said, gazing at the sky filled with hues of pink and purple. The sun would break the horizon soon. “Welcome aboard the Sarias. I’m Captain Treback,” he said, motioning them to board. “The heavy rains we’ve had recently make for a swift current. We should make excellent time. Probably reach Roqmar in a day.”

Despite the swift current, the day passed slowly for Falon as she constantly checked her medallion, willing it to move. She stood at the rail and watched the river bank pass by, shifting her feet anxiously. Disappointment washed over her as the boat passed the crossing point and the medallion’s arrow continued pointing southwest.

She spotted two men on the Valan bank watching the ship pass. A shiver ran down her spine when she sensed magic in one of them. Marla must have sent Michael south rather than chance the Underground being discovered. Or had the Underground already been discovered? Maybe Marla fled with Michael. The idea gave Falon some comfort.

True to the captain’s word they reached Roqmar late that night. Falon scanned the arching stone bridge hoping beyond reason to see Michael crossing safely into Alarus but no one was on the bridge. There was nothing to do but spend the night and inquire about Garen at the local inns in the morning.

Falon’s search at the inns proved fruitless and her tension grew as she walked back to the docks where Captain Treback unloaded tobacco, wool, and wooden crates only to replace them with barrels of ale and wine destined for Larrington another day south. She wanted to purchase a horse and charge into Valan. By herself if necessary. Anything would be better than sitting on the deck doing nothing.

Thanks to a little extra coin from Max, Captain Treback cast off as the sun dipped low on the horizon promising to have them in Larrington by morning.

Despite the captain’s best efforts the trip took a full day and they docked in Larrington at dusk the next day. Falon’s feet landed on the dock as the last mooring lines were being secured. At midday, the medallion’s arrow had moved, pointing more west than south. When they reached Larrington it pointed almost due west. Max and Jorgen caught up to her at the end of the dock.

“Slow down, girl,” Jorgen chided her, “we’re not rushing into Valan at this hour.”

She watched the last sliver of sun disappear behind the tree tops.

“We’ll get horses first thing in the morning and be on our way,” Max said.

“What if Michael doesn’t have a horse?”

“We’ll buy extras. They can serve as pack horses till we find the boys.”

“Best we find an inn,” Jorgen said, heading down the street toward a square sign gently swinging in the breeze.

The Barron’s Inn seemed nice, but Falon hardly noticed. Her food held no taste, the fire held no warmth, the revelries around her barely existed. Rescuing Michael consumed her mind.

Trudging up to her room, she slumped down on the bed and fell asleep before she realized it. One moment she lay on her back, looking at the medallion, and the next Max was gently shaking her awake.

They inquired after a good horse trader and found themselves on the northwestern side of town near Straymore’s Gate. Romero Baritton, a friendly fellow, tended a sorrel mare as they approached. He eyed Caballus, a smile creeping across his face like he saw an opportunity. The smile disappeared as Jorgen haggled with him, deflecting each sales trick, countering any argument Romero presented. Jorgen selected four horses including the sorrel mare, which Romero protested he could not sell at first. The horse trader appeared put out at the price he declared Jorgen forced on him, but as they rode away Falon noticed the glint in his eye as he bit down on one of the gold coins.

The angry, grey sky promised rain as they crossed the bridge into Valan. It matched Falon’s mood.

They reached Kingsgrove, a common farming town set on a hill, under the midday sun. The surrounding fields of ripe crops dotted with farm houses and barns made a patchwork of greens, oranges, and browns outlined by short stone walls of whitewash or slate color.

Two men impeded their path as they exited the town. Falon’s heart skipped a beat. She did not need to sense the magichae to know what they were. She reined in her horse casually, putting herself between the stripling and Max. Hopefully, the motion did not raise suspicion.

“Might I inquire who you are and where you’re going?” the black haired stripling asked, arrogance thick in his voice.

“Who we are should be obvious unless you’re less witted than you appear,” Falon replied, sitting erect in her saddle, returning his gaze with one much colder. She was the greatest assassin of the Rang Shalan, this arrogant buffoon had no idea how outclassed he was. “As for where we’re going, that is none of your business.”

The stripling’s eyes widened for a moment. Clearly he was not accustomed to anyone standing up to him. No doubt he spent a good deal of time bullying the town residence. He licked his lips, glancing at his magichae then fixed his eyes on Max like a cat on a mouse. As overconfident as he was arrogant.

“Might I see your mark?” he asked, regaining his steely expression.

Falon felt a tingle on her right forearm. Absently she pulled her sleeve back, barely managing to conceal her shock at seeing a tattoo on her arm.

“Why is your magichae wielding?” the stripling asked sharply, as his own magichae took an aggressive posture.

Falon’s hand darted to Max's wrist, snatching it firmly. The shock in Max’s face added to the illusion. “Perhaps because he does not trust you,” Falon replied sharply. “His family’s lives depend on my survival, not yours. He’s rather protective.”

The stripling’s sly grin dropped. He glanced at Jorgen and the two extra horses lightly loaded down with supplies. “I haven’t heard of any seeker teams containing three. Who’s your companion?” He twisted the last word, implying something dirty.

“Extra muscle,” Jorgen replied. Falon suspected his tone had sent many a person scurrying.

The seeker’s sly smile never faltered. “I see. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Perhaps,” Falon replied coldly, staring at the stripling while she walk her horse past him and his magichae. She did not dare breathe until they were fifty paces away.

“That was too close,” she breathed. “How did you know about the mark he asked about?”

“I noticed they had matching tattoos so I took a chance,” Max replied. “It only took a small trickle of power to form one on our arms. I’m surprised he could sense it. He’s a dangerous one.”

“He’s a bully looking for a fight,” Jorgen growled. “I suspect he’s tried to pick fights with other seekers before.”

“Perhaps, but I felt it too,” Falon said. “Better for us, his magichae companion gives off a unique feel. I think I’ll know if they come near.”

If the arrogant stripling chose to stick his nose in their business, she would happily chop it off for him.

C
HAPTER
36

Reunions and Pardons

Michael and Garen lay under a fir tree looking down on a town nestled between two hills. Evergreens, firs, and maple trees covered most of the area except where they had been cleared for the town’s surrounding farms. A few leaves still hung on, the last vestiges of autumn, dotting the evergreen background with intermittent reds, browns, and oranges. The rain had stopped mid-morning, replaced by a misty drizzle.

Lying on their bellies, they watched the town go about their afternoon business; shopkeepers talking with customers on their porches, farmers entering town with produce-laden wagons, housewives fetching the evening water or tending to laundry and children at the same time.

The town looked like a sleepy community the rest of the world had forgotten about. The road traveling east and west through town was barely wide enough for wagons to travel each direction and beyond the immediate area around the town there were few ruts or signs of regular use. The tall palisade surrounding the town was probably more protection than they would ever need.

“Well, I’d say it’s all clear,” Garen said, standing up and brushing fresh dirt off his travel-worn clothes.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, looking around, waiting for someone to point at them and scream ‘magichae’.

“I’m going down there,” Garen replied.

“Maybe we should move on.”

“Michael, we’re almost out of food.”

Michael’s grumbling stomach replied for him.

Garen grinned. “I’ll go check it out and come back. If the town’s as quiet as it looks then we’ll stay the night, get supplies in the morning, and be gone.”

Michael took another long look at the town, scanning for any danger signs. He had every right to be skittish. He wished Marla was with them. They could use her guidance.

After leaving Marla’s, they rode east toward the border hoping to find a crossing before border patrols took up positions. Just as Marla predicted, sentries had already started patrolling key areas of the border. No doubt many were seeker teams.

They had reached Roqmar the next day, shortly after noon, their horses worn out keeping the hard pace from Finery’s Way. Michael hid in the forest while Garen went into town and traded the horses for fresh ones. He had returned with two brown mares and a wanted poster bearing Michael’s likeness he had received from a guard at the gate. They headed south again hoping Larrington would be clear.

Midafternoon that day a group of bounty hunters had spotted them and gave chase through the forest. At one point, Garen suggested Michael set one of them aflame and watch the rest go running. Michael emphatically refused.

Garen’s second plan proved far more subtle and just as effective. Late in the night they had snuck into the bounty hunter camp. Garen mumbled something about poor sentries deserving a knife in their ribs as they cut saddle girth straps and horse lines leaving them little chance to give chase in the morning.

Losing the bounty hunters had proven to be a short-lived victory when a Seeker team picked up their trail the next day. Unable to lose the seekers they were forced to lie in wait, killing the pair with a shuriken each. It was the first time either of them had thrown a shuriken at anything except a target board. Quick and silent, the shuriken’s lethal result impressed Garen.

Deep in his mind, Michael felt a small pang of guilt emerge for killing the men, but he pushed it down. They were Seekers. Better dead at his hand than a noose around his own neck.

With their supplies exhausted and their nerves frayed, they had stumbled across the town. The lure of a warm bed was very tempting after several fireless nights.

Michael’s stomach rumbled again and he stood up. “No need to arouse suspicion. It’s a small town. Someone will get curious if you go down there alone, leave and then come back with a friend.”

“True. Still, why don’t you stay near the gate while I get us a room and ask a few questions? If there’s any danger, you can bolt before they can stop you.