Sword of Jashan (Book 2) (2 page)

Ander stared into his enemy’s grinning face. Someone shouted behind him; he was about to get overridden from the rear. He pulled his mare’s head around, trying to find a way around the man, maybe ride away into the woods. Two of the attackers rode past him, heading in the direction Lord Zelan had gone, cutting him off from help.

Ander’s attacker drew his sword arm back for the strike.

Ander had never before used the color magery in violence, though he had been taught to do so. He had only a second to act. He called on Jashan and felt the magery blaze up inside him. Always before, he had controlled the fire; he had spent much of his training learning to control it. Now he loosed his will, let his barriers fall, and blasted all the energy he could at the attacker.

Light leaped from his hands. It lit up the trail and the faces of the attackers and the lower branches of the surrounding trees. His attacker screamed and fell, arching backward as he hit the ground and color magery swept his fallen form, stopping his heart. Ander felt a blow and a sharp pain in his side. He jerked away as a second man pulled back his sword from his strike; pain bloomed up and down his side. He tried to gather his strength, tried to concentrate on the magery, but it slipped away from his control.

His attacker drew back his sword for a second strike. Ander tried to slide down the side of his horse and perhaps get into the woods. His foot caught in the stirrup. He threw his arms over his head in a useless attempt at protection, struggling to focus his magery.

The dark shape of his attacker was suddenly limned in light. The man screamed and fell backwards. Ander’s vision was scorched by the light of color magery; all he could detect were dark shapes, moving in on his attackers. One of them dragged the man back away from him. There were sounds of a brief, brutal fight: grunts, the crack of a bone snapping, and then a liquid gasp. Someone swore behind him, and there was another metallic crash of weapons.

Ander’s sight began to clear. He pulled his foot away from the stirrup and slid down from his mare. Someone else was next to him. He whirled, ready to fight, but it was a woman who grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the battle on the trail.

He let her pull him between the bushes, with his hand held tight to his wound to stanch the blood. On the trail, there was another flare of color magery. He heard someone scream. As he half-fell to the ground, he heard the beat of hooves coming fast on the trail from the direction his stepfather had gone.

“Sit still,” the woman whispered. “Are you all right? You took a blow.”

“I am bleeding.” Ander heard his own voice quaver, and was ashamed of his weakness. He took his hand away from his side and rubbed his fingers together; they were covered in blood.

“I need a light,” the woman said. It was black in the woods. The roadlamp had gone out, and the light of color magery had vanished.

Ander could hear Zelan’s voice shouting on the trail. It was not a battle cry; instead, his voice was raised in anger.

“I think it is over,” Ander said.

A man’s voice called from the trail. “Kirian? It is over. You can bring him out.”

The woman put a hand under his arm and helped lift him to his feet. Once standing, he was a full head taller than she was, but he still leaned on her in the dark as they stumbled through branches back to the trail.

There was more light on the trail from lanterns someone had brought from the village. Five bodies lay on and near the trail, as well as a grunting, terrified horse with a gash in its belly. A thin man held one of the attackers still, a knife to his throat. Lord Zelan and his remaining Hunter stalked toward a tall man with his straw-colored hair drawn back in a warrior’s tail.

“Who the hell are you?” Zelan shouted at the tall man.

“Callo ran Alkiran,” the man replied. “I think you are Lord Zelan of Northgard?”

“You came upon us just in time,” the Hunter said, reminding his lord of where thanks were due.

Zelan gestured at his Hunter, who went to take custody of the remaining attacker from the narrow-faced man who held him. The Hunter searched their attacker, going through pouches and armor looking for any other weapons.

“We killed one of them who came after us at the village,” Zelan said to Lord Callo. “The other got away. Where you came from, I have no notion. It seems extremely convenient.”

Ander lost track of the conversation as a curtain of grainy darkness began to sweep over his vision. He grasped the woman’s sleeve. “I’m bleeding,” he said again.

“Unknown God, of course you are,” she said. “Sit down. My lord! This boy is wounded. I need light over here.”

Someone brought the lantern. Ander squinted against its light and lay back, allowing the woman to pull his tunic away from his side. He waited for her reaction so he could gauge how bad the injury was, but her face was impassive as she examined the wound.

Then Zelan was looming above them. “Let me help him up. I need to get him to Littleseed for proper care.”

“I am a Healer, my lord. You will do better to let me make sure the bleeding is stopped before we try to take him anywhere.”

“How bad is it?” Ander gasped as she applied pressure—more than she needed to, he was sure.

She smiled at him. “It is not so bad. You were lucky.”

Zelan peered over Kirian’s shoulder. “Ha! That’s nothing more than a scratch, boy. Any
righ
could bear such a cut. Wrap him up and let’s get to the village.” He stalked away.

Ander squirmed away from Kirian’s hands. “If my father won’t thank you, I will, and also Lord Callo. You have saved my life.”

Callo bowed in his direction. “I am glad we were here. Let us go to this Littleseed and get your son tended under proper conditions, Lord Zelan. I take it that is the village we passed not long ago?”

“Your man should keep a close eye on your captive,” the servant told Lord Zelan. “I believe I have seen this man’s face before. You will want to question him.”

“I thought he looked familiar, Chiss,” Callo said. “From the city guard?”

The thin man nodded.

Lord Zelan almost sputtered in his confusion and anger. Ander spared a spiteful thought for how ridiculous the old man looked, and then felt ashamed.

Kirian had been wrapping Ander’s side with a strip of cloth she had obtained from the Hunter. Now she tapped him on the shoulder and held out a leather flask.

“Drink, Lord Ander,” she said. “Then on your feet. You will do fine until we get to this Littleseed. Just go slow, and have someone help you mount.”

“You are a College-trained Healer?” Ander asked, sipping the lukewarm water from the flask. He had noticed the woman carried no Healer’s bag.

“I am. My name is Kirian, if you did not hear it earlier.”

“I am very glad you are here, though I have no idea how or why.”

The old Hunter walked over to offer an arm for Ander’s support. With a nod of thanks, Ander accepted the Hunter’s arm. He felt shaky, from the effects of the wound or from his use of color magery, he did not know.

What kind of heir would he be to the legendary Sharpeyes, King Martan, strong in arm
and in his magery, if he couldn’t weather what his stepfather said was a scratch?
With this thought, Ander mounted his mare and urged her on. The fallen Hunters and the dead attackers lay sprawled across the trail. He clenched his jaw tight against the onset of tears as he thought of the fallen Innes. He knew Lord Zelan would send men back from Littleseed to bring back the honored bodies of the dead Hunters, and to bury the attackers somewhere in the woods. He slumped in the saddle, afraid in spite of what his stepfather had said. After a few moments he began to feel lightheaded.

The trees thinned out. The farmland belonging to Littleseed stretched out dark and lush with the summer’s crops before them. Beyond the fields was the village itself, just a few huts and a central guesthouse visible in the black night only because of the candlelight in their windows. Ander followed Zelan toward the low building in the middle of the village. As they approached, a woman of middle years walked out from one of the huts closest to the guesthouse. She held a lamp.

“Is it Lord Zelan, then?” she asked, holding the lamp up to illuminate their faces. “And five others?”

“One of us is wounded, Morem,” Lord Zelan said. “My son.”

Morem peered back through the darkness at Ander. She did not smile, and Ander thought her unwelcoming. Then she said, “My lord, we will make room in the guesthouse.”

Ander slid off his mare and was grateful when someone led her away to be cared for. Hon Kirian led the way into the guesthouse and pointed toward one of the cots that lined the walls. “Sit there,” she said. “This wound needs cleaned better than I could do in the woods.”

“Thank you, Hon Kirian.”

The thin man, Chiss, had gone out as soon as they arrived and now brought in a tub of warm water. Kirian dipped a clean cloth in the tub as Ander pulled his tunic away from the wound. He shivered as the water touched his side. Averting his eyes from what Kirian was doing, he watched the newcomers to distract himself.

Ander knew of Lord Callo ran Alkiran. He was actually his distant kin—the bastard nephew of King Martan, born of Martan’s sister, Sira Joah, by some unknown father. A bastard
righ
was rare; usually any such complications of
righ
affairs were disposed of, so as not to weaken the
righ
bloodlines and the precious mage talent. This one had been allowed to live, and not only that but also had been raised in the palace, under the King’s distant supervision. Ander had met Callo back in Sugetre; the man was almost thirty and had paid little attention to Ander, but Ander remembered the man’s amber eyes and the impression of his almost unbreakable control.

Lord Callo was in some kind of disgrace, Ander thought; he had disappeared from Seagard without leave, and the King had declared his estate forfeit. Now he was here, in tiny Littleseed of all places, by this Kirian’s word on his way to see his lord stepfather.

Kirian put away the wet cloth. “It is not so bad,” she said. “It is done bleeding, and seems to be a clean wound. But see where it is, across the ribs? If it had been deeper, it would have been serious. You had a close call. I do not have the proper herbs with me, so you will need treatment from Hon Jesel in the morning, at Northgard.”

“What I want to know is, who sent those men?” Ander said.

His stepfather replied. “I think they were Sword of Jashan. They wore gray, and no badge. One of them rode off when the color magery was loosed. Did they come through here?”

“We have seen no one else,” Morem said. “We have your prisoner locked up in the root cellar. A couple of our boys are watching to make sure he does not escape.”

“I’ll see him in the morning,” Zelan growled. “Get out of him whatever he knows. The rebels have an encampment somewhere nearby—I have begun to hear rumors.”

Callo grimaced in distaste. “No need, Lord Zelan. We can find out what we need by other means.” He glanced over to where the narrow-faced man worked over the packs. “Chiss,” he said. “Let us go and see if we can identify the rest of those men, before any of their friends return for the bodies.” The narrow-faced man handed Lord Callo his sheathed sword and sword-belt.

Before he left, Zelan gestured to his remaining Hunter. “Go with them. Take a couple of men from the village to help you bring back our own.”

The Healer paused and glanced over at the group as they walked outside. Ander told her, “My father does not trust Lord Callo. He wants witnesses.”

“He does not know us. But I can assure you that Lord Callo had nothing to do with the attack on you.”

Ander winced and pulled away. The Healer was wrapping the wound, and it hurt. She looked up at him with an apology, her eyes smiling. He gave back a tentative smile. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties; her face was slightly round, her skin fresh and clear, and her eyes a soft brown. He looked down at her hands as she finished her task, admiring their grace.

“Now,” she said, standing, “Do you want some mellweed?”

“No. There’s hardly any pain.”

“If you change your mind in the night, send someone for me. I will be on the other side of the guesthouse with one of Morem’s daughters. Just behind that door, see?”

“Will I sleep in here?” he asked, looking around.
With Lord Callo, whom I do not trust?
He wanted to add.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be perfectly safe.” She rose and took her leave heading for the other side of the guesthouse. In the center of the room, his stepfather stood eating bread and drinking ale, talking to Morem.

One of the village women brought Ander some bread and fruit. Ander thanked her and settled back on the cot, exhausted. His side did ache, but he wanted no mellweed. He wanted to wait until Lord Callo and the others had returned, to find out who had dared try to kill him. A sense of foreboding hung over him, as if his life was about to change in unpleasant ways.

He awakened sometime in the night. Booted feet echoed on the wood guesthouse floor; Lord Callo and the others who had gone out to investigate the attackers had returned. A single lamp was still lit. Ander watched through sleepy eyes as the men took ale and bread from the table and began to report their findings. There seemed to be some disagreement; he heard Zelan’s voice, tense with disbelief, although the men tried to keep their voices low to avoid waking the sleepers.

Lord Zelan stepped back from the others, shaking his head. Ander heard the words “King’s man” and all at once was awake, eyes wide, feeling as if the world had shifted beneath him. He drew a blanket around him and sat up to watch the others argue. Apparently, Lord Callo did not think the attackers were with the rebel group Sword of Jashan. Lord Callo thought the King his uncle had sent men to murder him.
 

Chapter Two

Ander sat on a stone bench in the shade of a tree near the practice ring. It was his training time, usually spent getting bruised up as Islarian tried to beat some skill into him. Today he was on the wounded list and so he had not shown up for his lesson; instead he sat, almost hidden by the flowering shrubs that partially surrounded the little bench, and watched Lord Callo.