Barrenlands (The Changespell Saga) (7 page)

He sketched her a noble bow. "Kind Machara. Just don't stop listening for that yell."

She raised her meat-tipped knife in acknowledgement, and he grinned back. But he thought, as he walked back along the line of wagons, that he would pick up his sword before he left Shette again.

He stopped long enough for some of the ham and potatoes— Shette had managed to keep them from burning despite his precipitous exit— but not any longer. "I'm going to walk on a ways," he told her, sticking his dish in a bucket of water to soak a while. Strapping his sword belt on in an act that was finally beginning to feel natural, he headed out.

Shette's voice followed him. "I want to come, too."

Spike snorted loudly, as though in emphatic agreement.

"Shette..." he started, and fortunately stopped before saying,
It's you I'm trying to get away from tonight
— because no matter what he really meant, he'd never explain his way out of that one. But over his quick meal, that vacant-eyed girl had returned yet again, replacing Shette's presence as she allowed her limp limbs to be dressed by kind hands, and he didn't want to see it again.

This sort of thing had never happened to him before. It had to be the vestiges of some strange spell, maybe one that had eroded into something other than its original form. In any case, it was distracting, and... disturbing.

"Shette," he said again, and firmly this time, "it's your turn to do the dishes." That, at least, was true. And by the angry mumbling behind him, she knew it as well.

Laine stepped out onto the path ahead. It was clearer here, for it wandered through a thick grove of sumac. The first year of the caravan, Laine and Ansgare had spent no small amount of time and effort cutting through it, and every time they came this way they had to take hand axes to the stubborn, quick-growing saplings. But the sumac soon gave way to grassy, scrubby rock— and not long after that, the path intersected the main Trade Road just shy of the Solvany border.

He'd nearly reached the end of the sumac grove when his eyes got that strange, hard-to-focus feeling. He eased to a stop, tipping his head; there was a sharp feeling to this spot. Laine rubbed his arm appreciatively; the skin was still pinkly shiny from the creature at the last spell with this feeling to it. There was a certain subtle clarity to the feel of magic at both places— a feel he'd not encountered in the previous two years of travel.

Feeling just a little silly, he drew his sword. Ordinary sumacs stood before him, the tallest of which was perhaps twice his height, dripping elongated spears of leaves and a few dried, leftover berry bunches from the previous fall's seedfest. And then...

Not.

Darkly reaching branches suddenly writhed before him, just out of reach— stretching, creaking— and by the Hells, they wanted
him
, grasped for him, the stiff wood turned to flexible tentacles and oozing...
something
.

Laine took a step back, his face scrunched in revulsion. An odor drifted out to him, a thick, gagging smell; he brought the back of his hand up to cover his nose and mouth. Something flittered across his vision, darting among the trees.

He didn't think it was a bird.

Laine stumbled back a few steps— and then a few more— before he dared to turn around and trot away. He moved up the hill a few feet and sat, only then discovering his sword was still in his hand. He laid it on the hill, rescued it when it started to slide, and found a bit of grass hummock against which to rest the forte of the blade, his hand clumsy with the shock of what he'd found. With the implications of it.

Think, Laine
. Think.
Tomorrow we've got to get a caravan through here
.

Or probably not.

Until this trip, the spells had been limited to one or two per caravan— spells worn from years and miles of wandering the mountain currents. And they weren't site-specific; they might trigger nasty, unworldly creatures, or they might bring down blindness upon all within the influence of the spell, or they might make everyone too heavy to move. They rarely had a direct effect on the environment.

Rarely isn't the same as never
.

But
never
, he had to admit, had the spells felt so... anchored.

In the distance, a loud snort.
Spike,
Laine thought, distracted. But then the noise repeated, and it held the edge of alarm. Scrambling to his feet, Laine realized that the mountains had twisted the sound on him, and that it had come from the sumacs. Someone else on their road, coming from the other side? Who would dare it, without a guide?

The shout of alarm he heard was human, and he didn't hesitate any longer. He scooped up his sword and ran for the sumacs. And this time, when he reached the spell, he didn't have to make any effort to see it. It was fully triggered— and there were figures within the odiferous, magicked sumac, thrashing against the twining limbs that reached for them, ducking the swirl and loop of a darting, airborne horde of... Laine squinted. Of...
something really ugly with teeth and claws.

He set his jaw and ran into the dripping trees, heading for the man and his two horses. His sword ran interference, and he ducked and slashed, creating enough noise so the man heard him coming and froze an instant, focused sharply on Laine. Then the heavy-boned horse beside him screamed a challenge— a branch had draped over his poll and oozed down his neck, spiraling a tendril around the rein that rested there— and the man was in motion again, leaving Laine with the impression of economical deadliness.

"Let me help!" Laine yelled over the huff-huff-grunt of the lighter horse; it reared, kicking its hind legs out behind before its front legs touched back to the ground. Something grabbed his ankle— Hells, were the roots doing it too?— and Laine hesitated just long enough to slash it away; when he straightened he had to duck a flurry of leathery wings and grasping talons. But he was still moving, and as he reached the besieged trio, the man said, "Take him!" and flung the big horse's rein at Laine, pausing at the last minute to shout, "It's safe!"

Laine was about to shout, "No it's
not
," as if that hadn't been obvious, harried as they were by tree and creature, when the big dark horse snaked his neck forward and snapped, lips peeled back on fierce teeth. Laine back-pedaled furiously, smacking into a tree and then reflexively leaping forward out of its unnatural grasp.

"He's
safe
, dammit!" the man said, and smacked the horse's haunches as it passed him, still on its way to Laine. The horse pinned his ears, shaking his head in threat— but when he snapped again, it was at the creature flapping above him.

Laine reclaimed the rein he'd dropped and turned for the edge of the sumac, hauling the horse for only the first few steps. As soon as the beast realized he was heading for safety, he spurted into a powerful pounding trot, dragging Laine the last thirty feet. The sumac clung to Laine, ripping his shirt— a noise which only spurred the horse on. Once on a clear path, the horse snorted loudly half a dozen times, and when Laine would have turned to check on the animal's companions, he discovered the horse had other ideas. He scrambled to stay on his feet as the lead rope jerked him onward, and was unable to stop the horse until the man's "Ricasso, whoa!" rang through the air from behind.

It seemed, then, that they'd all made it out. But Laine suddenly felt like he was getting
into
something just as dangerous.

~~~~~

The big dark horse jigged beside Laine on the way back to camp, and Laine kept an ever-wary eye on it as they finally approached the wagons— he and the oddly familiar man from the sumacs. His own little wagon seemed innocuously out of place compared to the horror they had just run through. It sat at the head of the caravan, square and solid, a sturdy four-wheeled box with a springed seat up front; deep compartments lining the outside edges held provisions and equipment and still left room for passengers or hay in the center. All very homey looking, and far too calm to be perched this genteel distance away from the hellish sumacs.

This particular camping spot offered an unusually wide section of the narrow valley. There was even room to picket Spike and Clang between the wagon and the mountain rising abruptly to the west of the trail. The couple dozen merchants and wagons strung out in a line behind his own were barely visible along the curve of the trail; only the everyday supper time noise and clatter gave them away.

Shette was nowhere to be seen. Spike's head jerked up from the hay Laine had spread out for him, his ears perked at full forward. He gave a challenging snort loud enough to pop Laine's ears; there was a clatter from behind the wagon— Shette, no doubt, startled by the noise.
That'd
put her in fine fettle.

In a moment she came out from behind the wagon, their half-empty laundry bag still in her hands— but her purposeful strides immediately faltered. Laine didn't think he'd ever seen that stunned look on her face before.

He rather enjoyed it.

It was easy to put himself in her place, to see himself leading
the big, handsome horse— to see the stranger behind, leading that spirited, high-crested chestnut with its flaxen mane and tail. He was taller than Laine, and despite the bulk of the leather, metal-studded brigandine he wore, it was clear he was broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, and long-legged. His boots were faced with metal greaves, and his strides long and self-assured.

Surprise, Shette
.

Shette took a few steps closer to them, her mouth hanging open, and Laine smothered a grin. Then the big horse stepped on his heel, and he had to take a few quick strides to keep his feet. When he looked up again, Shette had recovered her wits. She'd dropped the bag of laundry and waited with arms crossed.

Laine stopped at the wagon tongue, offering no explanation of it all but a tired and wry grin— not that Shette gave him a chance. Her eyes widened. "You
stink
!"

Laine's sharp reply, half-framed, was drowned out by Spike's abrupt braying, a greeting to the two horses who were wet with nervous sweat and not particularly interested in introductions. Behind Laine, the man snapped his horse's lead rope and said firmly, "Settle down." Shette's eyes went to him, and her face had a strange expression— almost disbelief.

"Are you all right?" Laine asked her, amused.
He
was the one with smelly sumac ooze on his shoulders and muck on his boots, his dark brown hair ruffled and messed, sweat dripping off his nose.

"Am
I
all right?" she repeated, truly looking at him for the first time. "I should be asking
you
! What's going on, Laine?" She gave the man and horse behind Laine another look, one that grew bolder when no one challenged it. "Who's this?"

"Ehren," the man said. "Your brother helped me out of a bad spot. I knew there was magic wandering around, but I never expected such an intense spell."

"Neither did I," Laine grumbled. Or such an intense
smell
, for that matter. "We need to talk to the caravan master, Ehren, and let him know you've joined us. Not to mention that we've got to find another way through to the Trade Road."

"I'm not at all sure I've
joined
you," Ehren said. "But we'll talk to the master after I've checked my horses."

"I can go get him," Shette said. "And I'm sure I can find someone with supper still on— I'll bet you haven't eaten."

Laine raised an eyebrow at her, suspicious of such cooperation, but said only, "Let's take care of the horses first, so Ehren has a few minutes before facing Ansgare." Ansgare would react strongly to the notion of a blocked road and a stranger on it, no doubt about that. She made a face at him, but it was a quick one, and then her eyes were on Ehren again.

"Just pull that saddle off," Ehren said to Laine. He was already working at the ties on the chestnut's pack, though the animal didn't strike Laine as a pack horse in the least. "We'll hobble Ricasso; Shaffron won't stray from him."

The horses were nervous enough that Laine never would have left one of them untied, but he didn't say so. Instead he flipped the stirrup over the saddle and tugged at the girth. When he glanced up, he discovered Shette had moved closer, and was extending a hand to pet the big black horse, murmuring some soothing nonsense.

"No, Shette!" he cried, lunging for the reins underneath the horse's chin just as the animal laid its ears back, flinging its head up and baring its big yellow teeth. Shette stumbled back in astonishment as Laine was swept off his feet and tossed to the ground, but Ehren was swift on those long legs and left the chestnut to snatch the cheekpiece of the black's bridle— but only to stroke the beast's neck.

The horse subsided; it lowered its head and flapped its thick mane against its neck as though nothing had happened. Shette stared at the creature, appalled— an expression she couldn't manage to tuck away before Ehren glanced at her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's best if you don't try to touch them. I should have said something right away."

"That's all right," Shette said, her voice uncertain; she glanced down at Laine as though looking for guidance. "I... imagine you had other things on your mind."

From the ground, Laine grunted, recovering from his awkward sprawl. "This horse has given me more bruises in one evening than Spike's managed in the last month," he said wearily. "And that's saying something."

Ehren's mouth quirked... humor, and apology as well. He leaned down to take Laine's arm.

Laine stiffened, every muscle jerking to attention.
The clash of steel and eyes watching him and blood and cries of pain and fire across his throat
... his legs gave way, his arm slipped out of Ehren's grasp, and he landed in a heap, on the ground again. Ehren hovered over him, surrounded by an aura of dark and ominous colors. Dangerous.

"Laine?" Shette's concerned voice sounded so very far away.

Laine took a big gasp, and blinked, and then frowned to find the earth so near again. "What the Hells?"