By Ways Unseen Page 24

  Eventually, far later than he would have preferred, and certainly far after the others in the house on the moors, Haydren fell asleep. His dreams were filled with an inexpressible joy, brought to him by the final possession of something indefinable. He would run, and search, and seek, until he had found that thing, and he was filled with a warmth that was complete.

  Once, as he attained the thing, a word came to him written in pale metal like liquid silver, etched into his vision yet tenuous as a whisper. It was a word familiar yet forgotten, and seemed always on the edge of his vision. His joy threatened to disappear as a yearning distracted him from what he possessed. He tried to turn, but couldn’t: his eyes were fastened in their sockets, his neck fused and immobile. He concentrated, trying to trace the spectral lines of the strange script, but they curved and looped so intricately that his mind was lost upon it. He stopped struggling; the word edged into view; it was the word that had come upon him as death encroached and Paolound pressed upon him:

  Aerithion.

  As soon as he apprehended the word, his sword was in his hand, rust-like flames blazing brightly enough to illuminate the world yet somehow without blinding him.

  He awoke suddenly to a slate-gray world that was cold and uninviting, and a day devoid of joy of any kind. The tempest had passed, but the heavy clouds lingered. Dasillion was awake, stoking the fire and preparing a hot breakfast.

  “There you are,” said the farmer as he turned and caught sight of Haydren. “I’m not sure what you two talked about last night, but Runacron left an hour ago. Said he needed to get to the mines; he’d had enough of nightmares and day-dreams, and wanted to get back to what he’d been made for. Can’t blame him or call him crazy; most folks think I am for living out here. But we all get by, don’t we? Breakfast?”

  As Dasillion went about busily, Haydren blinked and sat up, and glanced at his sword. He knew without knowing how he knew that the name was true; it was just another sense, along with the song from his harp and the man in his dream, that he knew came from his former life. But how could he explain that to his friends?

  Just then his friends were groggily waking, and soon were slowly re-packing their bags as Haydren went about in reserved silence. Geoffrey checked the horses, who had weathered the storm as well as could be expected. Dwereth accepted their thanks for tending the horses so carefully, but ducked back into the stables as Dasillion came out to announce breakfast. The low moors were on the horizon, their marshes flooded and sparkling in sunlight that lurked far away from the farm.

  Pladt stood beside Geoffrey momentarily, then heaved a sigh before returning inside; he was not looking forward to slogging through the marshes once more. This time, at least, he could do it atop a horse, looking down at the water rather than wading knee-deep in it.

  They ate mostly in silence; as they neared the end, Dasillion spoke up. “There is another farm, belonging to a man named Faschek,” he informed them. “It is just a days’ ride north; he should let you stay the night there.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?” Haydren asked absently.

  Dasillion paused, squinting. “I might call him so; he would probably not call me so,” he replied ambivalently. “Faschek is…well, Faschek.”

  “Sarah said the same about you,” Geoffrey said with a grin. The sorceress squinted at him, and smiled.

  “He’s not an enemy?” Dasillion replied hopefully.

  Haydren glanced up quickly. “Sounds wonderful,” he muttered. “Very reassuring.”

  “His is the only rest between here and Jyunta,” Dasillion said, bristling a little. “Camps are hard to strike on the low moors. Once you leave Faschek’s, you should easily reach the hill country around Jyunta in another days’ ride. Be kind to him, and he may grant you some sort of rest, is all I’m saying. You will certainly be in a better position than not asking at all.”

  “Very well,” Haydren replied, suddenly attending Dasillion with a calming smile. “We will; and thank you, Dasillion, for your hospitality and advice.”

  Dasillion smiled in return. “If you make it back this way, stop in and see me.”

  “We will,” Haydren promised.

  They rode off with Dasillion’s well-wishes, striking the low moors before the sun reached Half-Noon. The land here was no different than the low moors they walked through upon escaping the Northern Forest; puddles and streams laced the plain, and shocks of grass sometimes hid boggy ground. Their horses seemed better able to pick the firmest lines, and so they continued much of the day with slack reins.

  By Noon, the high moors had disappeared behind them, and the glittering moors stretched everlastingly around them. They lunched on an island that rose abruptly before them, and continued under a cloudless sky until evening.

  “How did you know Runacron?” Haydren asked, trying to keep his mind off his rumbling stomach.

  “We were together in Jyunta, before Durdamon called me south to advise him,” Sarah replied. “I was very surprised to see him there; and now a little troubled, after talking to him. Lucky that storm hit before we made camp; we might have missed him if we’d stayed out.”

  “Right,” Haydren said, biting a corner of his lip. “Lucky.”

  Lagging behind, and gazing despondently around the moors, Pladt suddenly sat up. He picked up his reins, and trotted his horse to the right. Sarah, turning in her saddle, watched the archer.

  “What are you doing, Pladt?” she asked.

  “There’s a strange puddle over here,” Pladt replied. “It looks kind of purple, all of the sudden.”

  Sarah bolted upright, snatching the reins. “No, Pladt, get away from there!”

  As the others turned to look confusedly at her, the puddle in front of the archer exploded in a fine mist. A dark creature, streaked with green, wrapped Pladt in thick arms and carried him off his horse into the water on the other side. The horse screamed and bolted; Haydren and Sarah both spurred their mounts forward as the goblin rose from the mucky waters with Pladt spluttering in his grasp.

  Human-shaped, but with a neck as thick as its head, the goblin writhed with musculature under thick, serpent-like scaly skin. One arm wrapped around Pladt’s throat, the other hand splayed on Pladt’s chest, ready to plunge vicious talons into his heart. The thundering hooves of Haydren’s horse distracted it; Haydren leapt off his horse mid-stride, Aerithion drawn, and dealt the goblin a blow to his shoulder. It would have done as much good as striking him with a club, for how little effect the blade had on the goblin’s thick hide. With a deep-throated bellow, the goblin retreated a few steps as Geoffrey approached with sword drawn.

  “Remember Dasillion mentioned sticking them with his sword?” Geoffrey said, keeping his eyes on the goblin, who in turn eyed the new threats warily. “I think they respond to thrusts better than slices.”

  “Sir Cullins neglected to mention that,” Haydren muttered.

  A deep rumble grew in the goblin’s chest. Sarah began to mutter something; a piercing whistle sounded near the goblins head near Pladt’s ear.

  The goblin screamed and fell backward, wagging his head; but before he released Pladt the hand on the archer’s right side convulsed, and his talons pierced quickly.

  Pladt cried out and fell sideways. Haydren ran to him and inspected the archer’s side where deep punctures marred the flesh beneath his ribs.

  “Is he all right?” Sarah called, still atop her horse, which danced nervously underneath her.

  In the silence there was a hissing squish as Geoffrey stabbed downward with his blade. The goblin fidgeted once more, the water discolored, and it was still.

  Haydren wiped a bit of purple liquid from Pladt’s wound and smelled it. His horrified expression met Sarah’s.

  “We must find Faschek’s house, immediately,” Haydren said, lip quivering. “Or he’s going to die.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ENEMIES

  “You are watching closely?”

  “Very.”

  “What of And
elen?”

  “When they’ve reached Jyunta.”

  28 Haschina 1320 – Summer

  Fountains of water sprayed into the wind as Haydren, Geoffrey, and Sarah thundered their soggy way across the moors. Haydren held the reins only to keep himself and Pladt upright atop the horse; he let it guide itself, as it seemed capable of doing. Pladt’s horse trailed dutifully behind, empty stirrups swinging.

  Onward they pushed. The foam that began to gather on the horses’ necks was washed quickly by the spray of Moorish water. As the horses began to slow, a house rose on the horizon.

  Haydren reined his horse to a stop before a porch nearly similar to Dasillion’s, though not as broad. Geoffrey leapt to the ground and ran to the door, pounding for admittance as Haydren slid Pladt’s still-limp body from the saddle. Sarah walked up beside Geoffrey just as a gaunt man of about thirty years of age answered the door. Despite an almost youthful face, his hair was greasy and ragged and beginning to thin on top.

  “Faschek?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Faschek Belfrind,” Faschek replied in a thin, gravelly voice. He looked at them both, quickly returning his gaze to Geoffrey. He cleared his throat and coughed. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice stronger now as he spat.

  “Our friend is injured,” Haydren replied, walking up the steps with Pladt in his arms. “We need hilsop and thielem; I know it’s popular on the moors: do you have any?”

  Faschek paused to look Pladt up and down. “Goblin?” he asked casually, noting the pallor of Pladt’s face and the ragged cuts in his shirt.

  “Yes,” Haydren replied hurriedly. “Do you have what I need?”

  Faschek paused to spit again. “You know his chances aren’t good,” he said.

  “They’re nothing if we don’t give him the herbs!” Haydren replied with eyes blazing. “Do you have them?”

  Faschek turned and went back into the house without a word. The door remained open, so after a quick glance at Geoffrey, Haydren carried Pladt inside. Sarah came last, a curious hesitancy in her glance.

  “Take the horses and stable them,” Geoffrey said, turning quickly on Sarah. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

  “Geoffrey—”

  “Just go!” he said, turning her and pushing her toward the door.

  Sarah marched out with only one quick glance behind her. A breeze nudged her as she exited the house, but she ignored it, snatching the reins of two of the nearest horses and yanking them toward the barn. Itinerant eddies threw her hair in her face, and she clamped her teeth.

  When she reached the barn, she let out a frustrated growl. “Idiot! We’re in a place he doesn’t know with someone who does, and he wants to ignore counsel.” She threw her shoulder against the first horse’s rump, and turned him into the nearest stall. “If Pladt dies from this, I’ll strike him with so many bolts of lightning he’ll be a thunderhead all his own.”

  The second horse stabled, Sarah strode back out to get the last two. Haydren and Geoffrey were on the porch discussing something in low tones; as Haydren went back inside, Geoffrey turned and glanced at her quickly, but stayed where he was.

  Don’t want to help? She grabbed the last two pairs of reins and hauled their cargo to the barn. She got the first horse in, but the second refused to back up to his place. She tugged the reins, but he just tossed his head and snorted, his eyes rolling white.

  “And what’s your problem?” she asked, pushing him with her shoulder. He took two steps forward, and she stared up at him. Would magic do anything?

  She glanced at the stall, then again; a socked foot was sticking up from the hay.

  “Thiol, thiol. Mol eo diler li valime re dol kohthaka verit alon tife!”

  A gust of wind rustled the hay, blowing bits into the air and uncovering the body.

  It was Faschek.

  As Sarah ran from the barn, she heard Haydren inside the house shout: “Geoffrey, get in here!”

  Geoffrey turned from the porch without looking at Sarah, yanking free his sword as he plunged into the house. She came up shortly behind him; the house was empty except for Haydren and Pladt, and Haydren’s sword was thrust into the wall.

  “Where’s Faschek?” Geoffrey asked.

  Haydren looked at Geoffrey without blinking. “I don’t know,” he replied evenly. “I was about to stick him through, and just before the sword reached him, he vanished.”

  Geoffrey’s sword drooped. “He vanished?” he repeated.

  “Faschek is in the barn,” Sarah replied, glaring at Geoffrey. “Dead and buried in straw.”

  Geoffrey glanced quickly at her, then back to Haydren. “How did you know?” Geoffrey asked Haydren, sheathing his sword.

  “He claimed we needed to let some of Pladt’s blood,” Haydren replied. “But I saw where he was about to make an incision; I struck a man in that same spot once,” he said, touching the spot on his inner thigh, “and he died – with only a finger-width incision.”

  “I know that spot,” Geoffrey replied. He gestured to the wall. “Take your sword down before it falls on Pladt.”

  Haydren did so, and sheathed it. “What are we going to do about Faschek?” he asked. “Who was he?”

  “A sorcerer, no doubt,” Geoffrey replied. “It’s rumored they can perform such tricks. We must keep a good watch, tonight, should he return.”

  “’It’s rumored?’” Sarah echoed. “To answer the question you two don’t seem to want to ask me: no, that shouldn’t have been possible. Not for…years…”

  Haydren gazed at her. “You don’t think…”

  Sarah’s mouth twisted sideways. “What do you think?”

  Haydren sighed, moved to a chair, and sat down. He sat in silence for several moments. “I don’t know,” he said finally, then paused again. “I want to get Pladt back to Werine.”

  “Why?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Something Runacron mentioned,” Haydren replied. “‘We’re not all warriors,’ he said. Pladt knows hydras, and should be home fighting them; that’s where he does the most good.”

  “And how would you intend on getting him home?”

  “Maybe before we go to Haschina,” Haydren replied in thought.

  “I think, after today, we need to get to Haschina as quickly as possible,” Sarah interjected.

  Haydren glared at her for a few moments. “I could take him to Estwind and put him on a boat,” he said.

  “You should not decide for him, though,” Geoffrey replied. He held up a hand to silence the protest in Haydren’s open mouth. “You get some rest; I’ll take the first watch.”

  As Haydren laid out his bedroll, Sarah moved beside Geoffrey. “I know you don’t like what I do,” she said quietly, but firmly. “And for some reason you and Haydren go on like I’m not here. But both of you risked Pladt’s life even more by ignoring me today. I could sense Faschek wasn’t right, and I tried to warn you.”

  Geoffrey’s head ducked, then turned toward Pladt.

  “Why do you both act like I’m not here, sometimes?”

  Geoffrey turned to her, then nodded his head toward the door. They stood.

  “Haydren, I’m going to check on the horses, and do something with Faschek’s body,” Geoffrey said. “I’ll leave the door open; shout if anything happens.”

  Haydren nodded, and watched them go.

  “Sarah, I know what answer would make sense,” Geoffrey said as they walked toward the barn. “But we did not get to know you that well in Quaran; you weren’t able to help much through the Forest – I am not blaming you,” Geoffrey said quickly as Sarah took a breath. “But that was how it was. Then Earl Durdamon knew things about us that no one should know, and you were standing apart from us while he set us up for this mission. Haydren, Pladt, and I have been nothing but honest with one another – sometimes painfully so.” They reached the barn, and stood in the doorway. “So far, we have seen none of that returned on your part.”

  Sarah folded her arms and leaned against the doorfra
me. “Earl Durdamon knows everything that no one should know,” she said. “I’ve only met one other person who was like that, and he was the strongest wind-wizard I’ve known. Durdamon has never let on that he has magical affinity, but… I did not tell him anything about you,” she concluded. “You can disbelieve me,” she continued, and Geoffrey flashed a grin as his eyes fell: he had tried to keep his eyes from rolling, and failed. “But this is me trying to be honest with you. I came to Kelian with no weapons, as I had escorts; I know my abilities with wind, and how they might be limited, but it was not safer for me to bring anything else. I think, instead, you all knew each other by the time you met me, and you, Geoffrey, didn’t care to get to know me because I’m a Rinc Nain who uses magic.”

  “Which you still haven’t explained yourself for,” Geoffrey said quickly.

  “I don’t need to,” she replied. “You have made your feelings quite clear, Geoffrey; and for now I reject them. And if I do, that is between the God and myself, not you. Tell me, did you join Uv Fehn before or after you came to believe the Histories?”

  She hadn’t meant to deflate Geoffrey so completely, and she instinctively reached out and grasped his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry; I could have opened that door more gently. But I’m sure you chose as wisely as you could, at that point, and have since asked forgiveness. I, too, may have to ask for forgiveness; but I have to act as wisely as I see now.”

  “I wish I could save you from having to ask the forgiveness I’ve had to,” Geoffrey replied.

  Sarah released his arm, and pushed some hair out of her face that the wind had pulled free. “Don’t be quite so sure of yourself,” she said, folding her arms. “I meant that generally, not about magic specifically. Either way, you two need to start letting me in. I know this land,” Sarah continued more gently. “I’ve lived here for twenty years; I’ve met Faschek before, and Dasillion, and others. I know the land around Jyunta, and I know the Jyuntans – including Lord Garoun.”