Circle of Thieves: Legends of Dimmingwood (9 page)

After we had given over our depressing search, I set the men
who had recovered from their shock to work digging graves to bury the remains
of the victims. I could see they thought it was strange we should take up the
task, considering the dead were strangers to us. There was some arguing; a
number of the men were eager to get away from the site as quickly as possible,
and I solved the problem by sending the less eager participants back to
Boulder’s Cradle, ostensibly to report the incident to Rideon. Those who
remained, set to work with a will born of impatience to be done and away from
the eerie place in a hurry.

I took an opportunity while we were out of earshot of the
others to order Kipp to get word to his brother that we needed a message sent
to Selbius.

“I think we all know to whom this day’s work belongs,” I
told him. “The Praetor should know as soon as possible that the Skeltai have
struck again.”

Kipp was moving before the words were all the way out of my
mouth, and I had to grab his arm to hold him in place.

“Not now, you fool,” I said, flicking my gaze toward our
companions. “Wait until we get back to camp where your absence won’t be
noticed. Then slip away.”

Kipp licked his lips nervously and nodded. He was looking
very pale, I noticed, and spots of drying vomit stained the front of his tunic.
But for all that, he looked steadier than some of the older outlaws. I told
myself I would remember his fortitude the next time I needed a circle member I
could rely on.

For now I sent him to scout the perimeter of the holding for
Skeltai tracks. I already knew there would be nothing to find, except possibly
another of those mysterious magical circles, but I was mindful of the men with
us and knew they would expect me to be as confused as the rest of them. I had
to go through the usual motions if I didn’t want to raise their suspicion. This
inner circle business was getting more complicated all the time.

“Are you certain this is Skeltai work?” Dradac asked quietly
when Kipp had gone.

“I’m sure of it. This matches everything we know of them.
Heathen rituals, blood sacrifices. Look at the construction of the alter, the
dyed feathers everywhere. The braided design of the arch reminds me of the
twisted scars on our old friend the Skeltai scout. Remember? I’d bet anything
if we could see what’s left of the stolen woods villagers they carried off from
Hammond’s Bend, we’d find them in much the same condition as the dead family
here.”

“But this attack doesn’t match their pattern,” he pointed
out. “They didn’t do this at Hammond’s Bend.”

“You forget at Hammonds Bend they met with resistance. Or
maybe this sacrifice was meant as a warning. Letting us in the circle know
they’re aware of what we’re doing, and they want us to back off.”

Dradac frowned. “Or…it could be neither of those things. It
seems to me this Sagara Nouri ritual of theirs, and its surrounding blood
rites, are coming up soon. Couldn’t it be they’re tired of sacrificing their
own folk and have decided to harvest ours?”

“There may be something to that,” I admitted. “Either way, I
think we could stand to know more about Sagara Nouri and the rites. Talk to Ada
again, will you? I know it was a long time ago she attended the rituals, but a
thing like that must make an impression on a child. Maybe she’ll remember
something else.”

A chill wind kicked up, carrying across the yard the fresh
scents of blood and death.

I said, “Let’s move out of here. I have a feeling Kipp has
discovered another of those magical circles the raiders move through, or will
discover one any minute, and I’d like to get a look at it.”

Chapter
Ten

We found the magic circle. I examined it carefully, but it
was as immoveable and mysterious as the one at Hammond’s Bend. Likewise, my
later talk with Ada proved fruitless, turning up nothing we hadn’t already
heard before. The intent behind the killings at the isolated woods holding
remained a mystery.

Over the next six weeks, the Skeltai launched two more
attacks on the humble folk of Dimmingwood. With our surreptitious help, each
attack was thwarted by the Praetor’s Fists, who always seemed to be in the
right place at the right time. No villages or individual holdings were
destroyed, and only a handful of woods folk lost their lives.

In return for our series of successes, the Praetor raised
our reward. Whether he did this out of gratitude or simply to keep his
informants was questionable, and despite having proven our value to him, we
kept our anonymity, reluctant to risk our necks.

The weeks passed quietly for us in Dimmingwood, discounting
the thwarted raids that most of the band learned about days after the action
had actually occurred. Rideon’s band, including us of the inner circle,
continued about our usual business.

*  
*   *

I should have realized this peaceful period couldn’t last
long.

It was late on an icy winter’s night when the war with the
Skeltai hit home. I was sound asleep inside the cave at Boulder’s Cradle,
buried deep beneath a thick padding of deerskins that didn’t quite succeed in
holding out the cold. I was in a drowsy trance, and the beginning of the
commotion didn’t immediately wake me. When it did, I groaned and buried myself
deeper in the furs, thinking I was having a nightmare.

I was jolted into a more thorough state of awareness by a
leather boot kicking me roughly in the face.

“Wake up,” Kinsley shouted down at me. “Get out of your
blankets, all of you! We’re under attack!”

Fists
, I thought immediately and scrambled clumsily
to my feet. I reached out in the darkness, and my hand fell unerringly on the
bow, which I never let far from my side anymore.

At Kinsley’s shouts, the interior of the cave exploded in a
jumble of confused activity. The dark combined with our panic to disorient
everyone, and we blundered around, knocking into one another and the walls in
our haste to pour out the narrow mouth of the cave.

Our attackers, nearer than we realized, were shoving through
the entrance, even as we struggled to push our way out, and we quickly found
ourselves trapped with stone walls at our back and sides and armed enemies to
our front. Packed tightly between the bodies of the others, I had no room to
wield a weapon even if I could have accurately determined friend from foe in
the confusion.

We might all have been summarily slaughtered there, like so
many sheep caught in a herding pen, if not for the courage of our sentries at
the camp’s edge. They had failed to issue advance warning of the attack, but
they now swooped to our defense. Although outnumbered and separated from the
rest of us, they attacked the enemy from behind until the rest of us were able
to take advantage of the confusion and force our way free of the cave.

Beneath the moonlight it was now clear our attackers weren’t
Fists but Skeltai warriors. That realization strengthened my determination to
hold them back. I had seen firsthand the horrible fate of their victims and had
no desire to join their ranks.

It was a fierce fight but the tide swiftly turned in our
favor.

I found myself always outnumbered and in the thick of the
fighting. I had no opportunity of using the bow in these close quarters without
danger of felling our own men, so I fought with my knives, although they were a
sorry defense against the spears and throwing axes of the Skeltai.

I became so absorbed in the business of staying alive it was
some time before I realized the fighting was dying down and that more savages
than outlaws lay bloodied on the ground. The sudden shrill sounding of a horn
spit the night air, echoing over the din of battle, and at the signal, the
Skeltai warriors abandoned the fight and drew back into the woods.

Dradac and Ada appeared at my elbow, and the three of us
followed after the retreating enemy. I knew how they meant to depart, and I had
no intention of missing this chance to see their magical portal in use. We
followed the sounds of the enemy crashing through the underbrush until we came
to a small clearing where patches of moonlight filtered down through the sparse
treetops. Here we stopped dead. Ranks of Skeltai warriors were crowding into
the clearing and appeared to be waiting for something, so we stayed out of
sight.

Even before I saw it, I sensed the strong amount of magic
being employed in this place. The portal stood before us, a circle of blue fire
etched in the earth. One moment it was nothing more than a glowing ring, the
next, it came to life. I felt something I had never experienced before, a
rippling in the well of the world’s magic like a heavy stone being cast into a
pool. I reeled with dizziness at the magical waves surging out from the portal.

I caught a brief glimpse of the forest floor on the other
side of the portal and beyond this, a cadaverous old man with pale skin dressed
in filthy rags and feathers, long wisps of thin yellow hair swirling around him
in a wind, a wooden staff in his outstretched hand. Despite the opaqueness of
his eyes, he seemed to be looking straight at me across the distance.

A shiver ran down my spine. Was I looking at a Skeltai
shaman?

I had little time to wonder. The magic collapsed in on
itself, and the image winked out, both the old man and the other forest
disappearing to be replaced by a dark man-sized void through which swirled
clouds of roiling fog were carried upon a soft breath of cold air.  As the
wind stirred my hair, chills danced over my skin, and not from the cold. I knew
this was no ordinary winter breeze but a bitter gust straight from the Black
Forest.

The Skeltai warriors wasted no time in stampeding through
the portal, disappearing into the black void. Watching them, I thought for the
first time I understood Hadrian’s feelings about the misuse of the Natural
talent. Too much magic became a dangerous thing in the hands of the
unscrupulous.

As the last warrior disappeared, I recovered my senses in
time to dive forward. The portal was closing, the circle of darkness shrinking when
I dropped to my knees and thrust my hand into the blackness. I felt nothing but
cold air and emptiness. I would have thrown my whole body through next, but the
magic activating the portal was already dying, and I didn’t know if I would
make it through or wind up trapped in someplace that was neither here nor
there.

As if sensing my thoughts, Dradac appeared beside me, and
grabbing my shoulders, dragged me back from the hole. I shook loose of his
group and pushed him away, but it was too late. The portal was gone, leaving in
its place a simple ring, the blue glow already beginning to fade from its
runes. Dozens of feet had churned the surrounding soil, their prints leading
into that circle. No tracks led away.

Even as I stretched out with my talent, I felt the last of
the magic dissipating around the circle, leaving me to clutch at insubstantial
wisps already evaporating on the breeze.

I had seen it this time, had witnessed the workings of the
enemy instead of coming in after it was all over. Yet still I understood
nothing of how the magic was done. Frustrated but determined, I set my palm on
the earth at the center of the now dead circle. Uncertain exactly what I had to
do, I focused all my thoughts on the portal and the mental image of that other
forest, the Skeltai warriors, and the old shaman. I willed with all my strength
that the portal would open for me, concentrating on that desire until sweat
beaded on my forehead and trickled into my eyes.

A brief image flashed through my head of the cadaverous old
shaman watching me with his sightless eyes. A mocking chuckle interrupted the
stillness of my mind, its intrusion awakening that other subtler presence
clinging to the recesses of my thoughts. The bow didn’t like another entering
its domain. Neither did I. I was reminded of how the Praetor had once invaded
my mind, and the thought was enough to make me draw back and raise every mental
barrier Hadrian had taught me. The bow stirred to the forefront of my
consciousness to reinforce my walls and together we held them firm and waited.

Nothing happened. The enemy was gone.

Dradac cleared his throat. “Uh, Ilan, the portal in closed
now. You can’t get through.”

I had all but forgotten he and Ada were present. Now I
remembered suddenly that neither of my companions were aware of my magical
abilities, and that to them, my actions must appear confusing.

“Yes, of course it’s closed,” I agreed, scrambling to my
feet. “I just thought if I was quick enough—”

“Then you’d what?” Ada asked. “Crawl through after them and
emerge who knows where, outnumbered among enemies?”

“You’re right. It was stupid,” I admitted.

We were all startled then by a rustling from the bushes
nearby. We tensed, but it was only one of our own people pushing his way into
the clearing.

“The Hand wants everybody back at camp, preparing in case of
another attack,” he beckoned.

I thought a second attack unlikely, since the raiders had
already had themselves transported away, but I didn’t argue. An order was an
order.

I was unprepared for the chaos awaiting us back at camp.
Although we had fought off the Skeltai, the raid had taken a heavy toll. The
bodies of our outlaw brethren, together with the corpses of our enemies,
scattered the ground. Beneath the light from moon and stars, we worked to separate
the living from the dead.

I spent the remainder of the night helping Javen care for
the wounded, something I was becoming well practiced at of late. Even as I
worked at sponging wounds and binding bloody limbs, I was dimly aware of the
men outside clearing the ground of Skeltai corpses and digging trenches for the
dead. I wished I could be out there with them, because I was eager to search
through the dead and be sure none of my friends had perished in the attack. But
I was needed inside, and it was impossible to get away.

Nib was among those carried to me for treatment. I winced
when I pulled back the torn pieces of his tunic to examine the deep belly wound
he’d taken and was just as glad he was unconscious. He never woke again, but
slipped off into the deeper sleep of the dead sometime during the night. I
mourned him although we’d never been exactly friends. I couldn’t help
remembering how he had stuck by my side years ago when we’d worked together to
save Terrac’s life. He’d also been among the first to join the inner circle.

But I didn’t have long to dwell on the loss. There were so
many others who needed attention. Six outlaws would die of their injuries
before the night was over and several others looked as if they might follow in
the days to come.

Not until the sky was gray with the dawning of early morning
did I get an opportunity to step outside and view the extent of our losses.
There was a miserable bite to the air, so cold it burned the lungs to inhale.
The frosted ground crunched beneath my boots as I walked through the camp and a
stiff wind beat at my back. I didn’t mind the cold too greatly. The thought
impressed itself forcefully on my mind that I must be grateful just to be alive
on this of all mornings.

The churned, blood-soaked earth at my feet gave evidence of
last night’s struggle, and I could see the drag marks where the corpses had
been hauled away. The wind carried a thick haze of blackened smoke from the
east, and whenever a strong gust blasted at me, I smelled the sickly stench of
singed hair and burning flesh that signaled the disposal of Skeltai corpses.
Such an end was no worse than they deserved.

I attached myself to the thin stream of outlaws moving off
through the trees. We made up a somber party on our short walk through the
forest until we came to a tight clearing not far from camp. Here we would
farewell our dead. It must have been difficult work for the men digging graves
in the frozen earth, and evidence remained of the fires they had built during
the night to soften the ground for digging. The graves lined up before us were
narrow and shallow.

I wished Terrac were present to speak a few words over the
dead, a service he had performed for us in the old days. But since he wasn’t,
the burial was conducted in stony silence and with no ceremony, the stillness
disrupted only by coughing and the stamping of feet as the gathering tried to
warm themselves. No one drifted away until the last body had been settled into
the ground, and I and several others had taken up shovels to fill in the
trenches.

When the job was done and I found myself finally alone, I
set aside my broken-handled shovel and squatted on the ground to catch my
breath. Counting the sixteen graves before me, I was overcome with regret that
I could do no better by my outlaw brethren than an unmarked grave in the middle
of nowhere. I wished every corpse had been bathed and cleanly dressed before
the burial and laid to rest with the proper respect. But out here such gestures
weren’t an option.

I became aware of Dradac’s presence as he joined me.

“We lost Nib,” I muttered to him.

“I saw. And Kinsley also… He died slow of a gut wound. He
wasn’t one of the circle, and I never even liked him, but I knew him for years.
He was with us from the beginning. You remember. Those days when we were just a
little band of highway thieves following under Rideon the Red Hand?”

I nodded.

“Seirdric is under the earth now too,” he continued, “but I
suppose you noted him among the dead. Also Illsman. He took a hammer blow to
his skull that should have shattered mine. Stepped clear into its path as it
came at me.”