A Touch of Magic (19 page)

He slowly pulled the knife from his sheath and crept forward, toward the oncoming soldiers. That was one of Master Erliand’s lessons: do the unexpected. Randall needed any advantage he could get, and he was sure that they would expect him to bolt and run. Or, they might expect him to freeze in place and hide, giving them time to flush him out. So, instead, he crept toward them, hoping to catch them off guard. If he could meet them in battle sooner than expected, he might be able to take one of them out and even the odds before they even knew what hit them.

     Randall silently cursed his luck when they surprised him, too. Both riders slowed to a stop and un-slung crossbows from their backs when they were about fifty yards from where he had originally dropped into the grass, leaving him close, but still too far away to do much good. If he rushed them now, they would have plenty of time to cut him down before he even got close.

“I think he dropped into the grass right over there,” one man said and the other nodded. Randall recognized one of them as the soldier who had put the over-size armor and helmet on him at the job fair last year. He bit down hard on his anger.

That man had set off the whole chain of events that had led Randall to this point! If it weren’t for him, Randall would be working in a bakery or a carpentry shop right now, living a normal life. Not on the run, living off of the land like some hardened criminal! The rational part of Randall’s mind knew that this man had nothing to do with his Talent, and that Master Erliand would have picked him up just the same. But part of his mind wanted to pin all of his problems on a single source, and the man in front of him was the perfect scapegoat.

The other man broke Randall out of his reverie by calling out loudly: “Might as well stand up boy! That king’s herald let us know your little secret! That magic trick you have only works all close-up, like. If’n we sit back here and take pot shots at you, there’s nothing you can do about it. Better to end up arrested than dead, boy.”

Randall held still. He doubted that the men meant to let him live either way. After a couple of long minutes, the man harrumphed and shot a crossbow bolt over Randall’s head and into the earth near where Randall had originally dropped into the grass.

“Have it your way, boy. We got all day,” the man called out as he wound the crossbow string up to ready it for another shot. “When we don’t come back, more will come looking for us. And then we can fan out and have ourselves a nice slow search. ‘Course, by then, I’ll be mad ‘cause you made me sit up here in the sun. Can’t say as I’ll treat you easy if’n it comes to that.”

After winding his crossbow back up, the soldier knocked another bolt, and took aim again in the area near where Randall had gone to ground. When the other soldier did the same, Randall was struck by a flash of inspiration. If they both shot, he could make a run at them when they were both trying to reload their crossbows. He could easily cover the ground before they could set another bolt, and hopefully catch them completely unarmed. Their swords were still in their scabbards! It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one he could think of.

And he didn’t have time to think of a better one! Two crossbow bolts whizzed over his head, to thud into the ground behind him. He had to move—now! Pushing himself up from his hiding place, he started running full-tilt at both men, screaming in fear and defiance. Both men seemed completely taken aback that Randall was so near and hesitated long seconds before acting, allowing him to close the distance further.

The younger of the two militiamen seemed unable to switch mental gears to account for this unexpected turn of events. He continued to wind his crossbow, but at a faster, fear-driven pace. The older soldier was more seasoned, and once the momentary surprise wore off, he dropped his crossbow and spurred his horse into a gallop, drawing his sword as he raced toward Randall. It wasn’t exactly what Randall had hoped to accomplish, but it was too late to turn back now.

Well, at least it’s only one of them,
Randall thought, grimly, as he prepared for the clash.

Erliand had schooled him on this kind of combat. If he were to ever play the role of a caravan guard, there would inevitably come a time where he faced men on horseback when he was on foot. “Fight the horse, not the man,” his master had instructed.

As the soldier galloped within sword-reach, he pulled his sword arm back, screaming his own battle cry into the air. He meant to slice Randall open on the run. It was the kind of move the militiaman might have practiced hundreds of times against bog-wights. But, Randall was no mindless bog-wight. As he came into range of the other’s weapon, Randall slid down low, below the sword’s reach, and stabbed the horse in the haunches as the soldier sped past.

The horse immediately began bucking and kicking violently, landing Randall a glancing blow on the shoulder that nevertheless numbed his arm down to the fingers. Luckily, it wasn’t his weapon arm, and he kept a tight grip on his knife. The horse’s wild gyrations had thrown the soldier from the saddle as well, and as he scrambled to his feet, Randall leapt upon him and plunged the knife deep into the side of his neck twice, causing blood to spray outward in a fountain.

As he turned to face the other soldier something slammed into his ribs, tumbling him onto his back. He was sure the injured horse had landed him another kick, but as he collected himself and scrambled to his feet, he was surprised to see a crossbow bolt sticking out of his side. He was dazed, and barely felt the prick of the bolt’s head, though his side ached dully where the crossbow bolt had slammed home.

At that moment, all of the anger that Randall had been biting down on came boiling to the surface. He looked around and found the guard that had shot him—the same guard that had laughed at him so long ago. Even though shock numbed him from the pain, Randall was sure he was going to die from his wound. From the bolt’s location, it certainly had pierced a lung, and probably had torn into his liver. But as long as anger kept him on his feet, he planned on taking his vengeance out on the man that had killed him.

It wasn’t fair. His life had been ruined. He would die out here in this field, cut down like a common criminal. He would never know love. He would never see his family again. And nobody would care, because he was devil touched. He was unclean. Everyone in his town wanted him dead. And it was this man’s fault. This man, at least, would pay.

“You!” Randall growled out, murder in his eyes, and began walking toward the soldier.

The sight of Randall stalking toward him with an arrow shaft sticking out of his lungs unnerved the soldier, and his jaw dropped. He paled and his eyes widened, and his hand involuntarily flew to his mouth in horror. His horse began prancing backward and pulling at the reins, blowing out noisily and tossing its head left and right.

“You!” Randall bit out again, more forcefully than the last time, jabbing his finger at the soldier, frozen in fear.

The soldier snapped out of his trance, and with a yelp, wheeled his horse around and dug his spurs into its flanks.

“You’re not getting away,” Randall vowed under his breath. It was only then that he realized that he’d drawn in a dizzying amount of magic from Llandra. He was so full of it, he felt as if he would burst. The soldier’s horse had felt it. The soldier had too, even if he might not be aware of the cause of his sudden terror.

Randall reached out with his hand, toward the soldier, as if he could simply reach out and grab him off of the horse from twenty yards. And in his mind at that moment, Randall felt a connection between himself and the fleeing man. He felt connected to the earth, and the sky, too. Everything seemed to be exactly where it should be, at this moment in time. The power within him seemed to hush, as if waiting. Everything around him seemed to slow, and all the anger melted away from him. Fear and despair were gone, too. All that was left was this one, singular moment in time, where everything was perfectly connected.

I’m supposed to do something now,
Randall thought, much like the first time that he had drawn such power on a field of battle. But this time, he knew exactly what to do.

As the soldier sped away, Randall uttered a three-syllable word that he had only heard once before. He didn’t shout. He didn’t growl it out. He said it softly, lovingly, calling for the power within him to do his bidding.

“Grd’zx’kan,” Randall murmured. Still, no matter how gently it was spoken, the word ripped through his vocal cords, leaving them raw.

The power fled Randall like smoke on the breeze. It raced from him into the earth, into the sky, and into the fleeing soldier.
They’re all connected, after all
, Randall thought to himself, as everything around him abruptly seemed to resume its normal speed.

At that instant, the heavens were torn by a huge bolt of lightning that ripped from a cloudless sky. It raced downward, seeking the earth, and slamming into the soldier with a mighty thunderclap. Randall was thrown from his feet, landing on his back. Consciousness fled him, and he passed out, sure that he would never awaken.

Eventually, Randall did stir. After spending long moments regaining his senses, he slowly rolled over onto his side and wearily looked over at the soldier. The smell of burning flesh drifted to him on the wind. Only an unrecognizable, charred lump remained where the soldier and horse had been. Small fires crackled in the grass around the smoking remains.

He had lived! Looking around him, he had a hard time imagining that he was the cause of the carnage he saw. One soldier nearly decapitated, the other, burned beyond all recognition. He wasn’t a killer! He was only a kid! How could he have done all of that?

A fresh twinge of pain in his side caused a painful spasm of coughing. Randall’s vocal chords felt like they had been twisted and scraped raw. He tasted blood in his mouth, and when the coughing subsided, there were flecks of blood on the back of his hand. And with every cough, he could feel the crossbow bolt digging into his flesh.

Looking to his side, he saw that the crossbow bolt had only penetrated an inch, at most. His Buk-strengthened undershirt had saved him again, stopping the quarrel from dealing him a fatal wound. Still, he thought one of his ribs must be broken, and the small wound where the tip of the bolt had actually penetrated flesh needed to be cleaned and tended to. An inch-deep wound was still dangerous, and he could easily die of infection from it.

Looking around him once again, he remembered the words of the older soldier. More would be coming! And Randall had no idea how long he had lain unconscious on the grass. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours! Adrenaline drove some of the exhaustion from his mind, and spurred him to action.

He was still in danger, and he was about to put himself in greater danger yet. The plan forming in his mind was reckless, but it was the only choice he could think of in his haste. And so Randall scrambled to his feet and began limping as quickly as he could—directly toward Black Eel Marsh.

Chapter 8

Black Eel Marsh was aptly named. In the springtime, the snaky black predator choked the ponds and waterways of the marsh, providing nearby towns with a seasonal delicacy. Randall’s mother usually prepared eel several times each spring; it was easier to catch this time than at any other time of the year. Luckily, the eel wasn’t poisonous. Even so, it had two sets of extremely sharp teeth and would bite if provoked. It would be prudent for him to watch where he stepped.

Though the bog was home to the black eel, snakes, poisonous insects and other hazards, the real danger of the marsh was the bog-wight. Bog-wights had no natural predators in the marsh to check their population. They would eventually grow so numerous that food competition forced them to strike out from the marsh in packs, raiding livestock and waylaying travelers. Bog-wights were said to be cunning, surrounding their prey and attacking from the rear.

Though the militia did a thorough job every year culling the excess population, the marsh was too large and forbidding a place for the King’s men to completely eradicate the predator. Randall would have to be very careful.

As the spongy ground surrounding the marsh began giving way to increasing amounts of standing water, Randall, couldn’t decide if he should be relieved or not. There was no sign of pursuit from the road, but bit by bit, the open ground was being overtaken by the mangrove trees that made up the heart of the marsh. The root systems of these trees looped and jutted up from areas of standing water, creating a tangled maze of vegetation that was impossible to wade through easily. At least there would be no men on horseback overtaking him in this mess! They’d have to slog through the vegetation on foot, putting him on equal ground at least.

Randall was hoping that they wouldn’t pursue him at all. Hopefully, they would just assume the bog-wights would take care of their problem for them.

And they just might, after all,
Randall was forced to admit to himself. Early spring was usually when the first news of bog-wight attacks began trickling into Geldorn.

By mid-afternoon, Randall was deep within the marsh. Though ghost stories and songs always described the marsh as “eerily quiet”, in truth the area was teeming with noise. Randall would have preferred the quiet. The marsh was crowded with animal life: frogs, birds, snakes, insects, fish and lizards were all around him, croaking, buzzing, rustling leaves and splashing water. As he bolted through the marsh, every new sound caused him to jump in fear, jerking his head around to find the source. Most of the time, he never even saw what had caused the racket. He was convinced that every rustle, thud, or snap of a tree limb was caused by pursuing soldiers—or, even worse, bog-wights.

Eventually, worn down by anxiety, Randall stopped at a fallen tree to rest and eat a long-overdue lunch. He cut himself a large wedge of cheese and decided to eat another apple while they were still fresh. After a few bites, he began to relax. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t being followed. It was impossible to travel silently through the marsh, especially if one intended to cover ground quickly; he should have heard any signs of pursuit long before it reached him.

Randall had been splashing through the marsh rather noisily, and his haphazard flight had been spooking the wildlife around him into adding to the clamor. Now that he had settled down, he realized that the marsh actually
was
“eerily quiet”. Once you got used to the steady thrum of marsh wildlife, the soft din faded into the background. Any break in that monotonous undercurrent of noise would stand out like a sore thumb. It was almost as if the steady hum of marsh life made it seem
quieter
, if that were possible.

As Randall listened to the constant rhythm of the marsh frogs and insects around him, he let his mind wander. Now that he had been forced into the marsh, he really had no plan on how to get to Paranol. And now that he had been forced to kill—Randall choked back a sob at the memory—the militia knew which way he’d been heading. Paranol was probably not even the safest option any longer.

After a few minutes of silent musing, Randall realized that he felt something tugging weakly at the apple that he’d let dangle from his hand, neglected. Looking down, he was jolted out of his reverie by the sight of an enormous brown rodent pulling on the apple!

“Ugh!” Randall cried, as he instinctively yanked his hand away.

Randall’s sudden motion flung the creature over backward, but it somersaulted in the air and landed dexterously on the log beside him. That was when he realized it wasn’t a rodent at all. In fact, it almost looked like a little man crouching down on all fours!

It was only a few inches tall, but it had long spindly limbs attached to a thicker brown torso. The thing’s fingers were very long and dexterous, and its wrinkled, leathery skin was loosely stretched over a wiry frame. Its most striking feature, however, was the creature’s very human-like visage, with large, expressive eyes that spoke of intelligence. Though it seemed to lack any of the features that would let Randall determine the creature’s sex, in Randall’s mind, it was obviously a tiny little man.

The creature stood on two legs, half-crouched, watching intently as if assessing Randall’s next move. After a few long seconds, its eyes darted down to the apple in Randall’s hand, before quickly darting back up to meet his eyes. It crept forward a couple of half-steps, still crouched and wary, and then held its long-fingered hands toward the apple, longingly. Randall found the behavior incredibly endearing.

“Aww, aren’t you cute! Are you hungry?” he asked while breaking off a tiny piece of the apple.

Leaning forward, he placed it on the broken tree trunk between them. The tiny creature studied the apple piece warily for several seconds, its eyes darting back and forth from the little snack to Randall and back again. Finally, it seemed to make a decision and rushed toward it, snatching the morsel up from the log. It skittered backward to its original position and quickly devoured the small tidbit in fast, tiny bites with its needle-sharp teeth. It looked back at Randall, and held its hands back out, insistently.

“Wow, you
were
hungry!” Randall laughed, overjoyed to have found something interesting to take his mind off of his predicament. In that pose, the little creature reminded him of nothing so much as a small child begging for scraps in the kitchen while dinner was being prepared.

Laughing at the mental imagery, he bit off a larger piece of the apple, and put it down on the log, again between himself and the little creature. This piece was a bit too large for it to easily haul away, and after several moments of trying, the little man gave up and began nibbling on the apple piece where it lay, while eyeing Randall warily between bites. It chirped angrily and skittered back away from the piece when Randall plopped back down on the log and began eating the rest of his apple, but after waiting a few moments to ensure that he was not moving closer, it crept back toward the irresistible morsel and began devouring it hungrily.

Randall finished the last of the cheese he had cut, and looking over at his new friend, saw that it was nearly finished with the piece of apple he had laid out for it. It was eating much more slowly now, and would take a few bites, and then look back up at Randall, as if to be sure that the giant wasn’t making a move toward him. When it saw that Randall had finished eating, it looked back down at its own remaining scrap of apple. Then it surprised Randall completely by picking up the apple bit and holding it out to him!

“For me?” Randall asked, astonished. “How considerate!”

When he reached down to take the apple piece, the creature dropped the apple into Randall’s open palm, and then quickly scampered up Randall’s arm!

“Hey!” Randall cried, startled, shaking his arm to rid himself of the thing.

The little man made its way up Randall’s tunic, as Randall danced around trying to dislodge the tiny invader. Eventually it settled on a spot on Randall’s shoulder, and as Randall reached up to brush it off, he realized the little imp was purring. Looking down, he saw the creature had hooked its long fingers around the hem of Randall’s stiffened undershirt and had its eyes closed. It even looked like it had half a smile on its tiny face! It opened one eye, and snuggled closer to Randall’s neck, purring all the while.

“Hey, I guess you’re ready for your afternoon nap after such a feast!” Randall chortled, feeling his face break into a smile of its own. “I suppose it won’t do any harm to let you come along. It’d be nice to have a friend.”

Randall gathered up his belongings, and began walking further into the marsh, feeling quite a bit calmer than he had felt before lunch. The presence of the little man-imp purring on his shoulder soothed Randall considerably. The fact that he had some food in his stomach probably didn’t hurt either.

 He resumed his walk at a much more relaxed pace. Now that he wasn’t racing pell-mell through the marsh, he noticed that he wasn’t disturbing the inhabitants nearly as much, and the splashes and other startling noises that had so rattled him earlier were fewer and far between now. The marsh noises almost seemed peaceful and pleasant, once he got used to the constant sound of frogs and insects calling out to each other.

Randall spent the next few nights trudging through the marsh by day, and sleeping in the driest spots he could find by night. During meal times, he shared his apples with his newfound companion. The little pixie would stand at Randall’s feet and chitter excitedly until given a piece of apple, which it would devour with great gusto.

Randall’s largest complaint was an assortment of bug bites that left him scratching constantly. The
bog-wights won’t have to kill me,
he thought glumly after pulling up the leg of his trousers and inspecting a fresh welt rising up on the skin.
If I stay here much longer, these mosquitoes are going to suck me dry!

Randall’s new companion seemed immune to the onslaught of blood-sucking insects that seemed to thrive in the marsh. He never saw the little pixie scratching or slapping at bites. In fact, it was the insects that had cause to worry. Once, as a pesky dragonfly buzzed near Randall’s face, the little man’s hand darted out in a flash, snatching up the insect and shoving it into his tiny mouth. The imp chattered with contentment as he noisily snacked on the bug right next to Randall’s ear.
Ugh!

Luckily, Erliand’s healing talisman kept the bites from becoming more than a minor irritant. Soon, the bites would stop itching, and within an hour, the welt would be gone entirely. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about developing festering open sores from mindlessly scratching at the bites all day. Were anyone following him, they wouldn’t be so fortunate.

 On his third day in the marsh, Randall noticed that his undershirt had finally reverted back to its original cloth consistency, with a ragged hole where the rune had been marked. After slipping the shirt off, he realized that his chest and ribs had healed completely, too.

No wonder Erliand had said people would kill for this thing!
Randall thought, admiring the talisman in wonder. His injuries would normally have taken a few months to heal. Instead, it had taken only days, even with all of his exertions.

Randall’s food stores ran out that morning. He laughed around a bite of his last bit of journey bread as the little pixie rummaged through his travel sack, looking for food.

“Fresh out of apples, little man,” Randall informed the creature as he noisily chewed the tough hardtack bread. “Probably won’t be getting any more any time soon, either. Hardtack is all we have left.”

The pixie scrambled out of the bag, backward, and turned to look at Randall quizzically. Randall held out a bit of his journey bread out to his little friend, but after daintily touching it with its tongue, the creature snorted and shook its head as if clearing it from tasting something foul.

“Hah! You think my bread’s disgusting, but you’ll eat a bug? No accounting for taste,” Randall laughed.

The little creature chattered angrily as Randall popped the last small bite into his mouth. “And now we’re completely out of food, I’m afraid,” Randall informed the creature apologetically. “I suppose it’s time to hunt some more up.”

 The little imp tilted its head to the side, almost as if it could understand what Randall was saying. Then it raised its face into the breeze, sniffing the air experimentally. In a flash, it turned to dash off into the underbrush. Randall barely had time try cry out “Wait!” before the creature was gone.

“Fair weather friend,” Randall grumped.

Randall was surprised at how dejected he was at the little pixie’s departure, but he had to face the facts. Whatever it was, the little sprite was a wild creature, and not a pet. It made sense that it would only stick around so long as Randall had a ready supply of apples that he was willing to share. Still, the creature was the only friendly contact he’d had in days. And now, with it gone, he had no one to help keep his mind off of his troubles.

He sat in silence long after the meal was finished, hoping the little creature would return. When it was evident that it wasn’t coming back, he began packing up his camp and preparing to resume his travels. He had just gotten his journey sack slung across his shoulders when he heard a high-pitched chittering at his feet. He looked down to see that his little friend had returned!

“You came back!” Randall cried out, overjoyed to see his friend. “And what’s that you have?”