Fire And Ice (Book 1) (20 page)

             
Coran drew his sword and his mount hurtled them into the concealing foliage.  More orders were shouted back on the road.  “Second rank form up on the coach!  Forward!”

             
A man appeared in front of him with a dull sword in his hand.  Coran struck out and the man fell with a gash across his chest.  He heard other cries under the green canopy, coming from the direction to his left and ahead.  He went deeper into the forest, and further from the road, until he came across another man.  This one heard him pursuing and turned to face him.  His face said he was ready to fight rather than be taken down from behind, despite the fear in his eyes.  Coran almost regretted killing the man and had to remind himself that it had been the man’s choice to be there. 

             
Coran’s horse slowed and he listened for anyone else who might be running.  What he heard was a whiff of something passing through the air just before something struck him on his left side, pitching him forward in the saddle.  His shoulder felt on fire.  He looked down to see the point of an arrow, and two inches of shaft, protruding out his front.  He tried to keep his thoughts from the pain, as he turned his mount to look for whoever had shot him.  No one was there, but it was hard for him to be sure.  He was suddenly having trouble seeing.  He needed to get back.  The road couldn’t be too far away.  He let the horse carry him and hoped it knew the way back to the others.  He couldn’t keep his head up any longer.

              The coach still ringed with guards, returned to where the attack had occurred after someone came to tell them it was now safe.  As it rolled to a stop, Katelyn peered out at the scene on the road.  Two of her escort lay dead in the dirt.  Nearby, three shabbily dressed men sat back on their heels with hands tied behind their backs and guards standing over them.  Loras watched the carriage and waited for her to emerge.  The one thing she noticed above all else was the absence of Coran.  She remained calm in front of the Captain.

             
“Your Highness.  We killed twenty-eight and took these three prisoner,” Loras reported.  “We lost two and only three were injured.  If any of the attackers got away we will not be able to catch them in these woods.”

             
She waited with great patience for him to finish before asking what she really wanted to know.  “Where is Coran?”

             
Loras did not meet her eye for some reason.  “I do not know.  He headed that way when we charged into the trees.”  He pointed to a spot along the roadside.

             
“Devon,” she called, but he had already turned his mount and was plunging into the trees.  The sound of crashing leaves marked his passage. 

             
“The prisoners?” Loras cautiously asked her, wary of her present mood.  “The penalty for attacking a member of the royal family is well stated.”

             
Katelyn was not ready to think about anything else until Devon returned.  Loras was right in that they had to be dealt with.  She looked more closely at the three prisoners kneeling in the road.  Two were dressed commonly, but not as shabbily as she first thought.  Their grimy faces were set grimly.  The third man was dressed in a torn shirt and patched pants, he looked near tears. 

             
“We didn’t know,” the third one cried.  “There was supposed to be gold.  That was all, only gold.”

             
“For this crime that is irrelevant,” Loras informed the man who started to cry even harder.              

“Wait a moment,” she told the Captain, then stood in front of the third captive.  “What are you talking about?  What gold?”

              The sniveling man looked up at her face.  “The man who brought us here, he said that there was some gold being taken to Summerhall.  He said it was being carried in a coach as a disguise.  We just came for the gold.  He didn’t say nothing about any royalty.” 

             
“The man.  What was his name?”

             
“Naras.”

             
The answer did not surprise her.  Coran suspected as much.  “We will take them back with us,” she decided.  If they were to be sentenced to death it should be done properly, in Summerhall.  “And have your men bury the dead.”

             
Loras saluted before issuing her orders.  Katelyn no longer heard him, as she bit her lip in worry.  Every second was agony.  After an eternity a sound was heard in the underbrush.  Devon emerged first.  He was leading the reins of Coran’s black.  She gasped at what she saw.  He was slumped over in the saddle, his head touching the horses’ mane.  Even worse was the foot and a half of arrow shaft sticking out of the back of his shoulder. 

             
Two of the guardsmen came and helped him from the saddle.  They laid him down on his side in the middle of the road, and kept him from falling over and hitting the arrow against the ground.

             
“Is he...?” she couldn’t say it.  Devon shook his head and she could see that Coran was still breathing.  “We have to get the arrow out.”

             
Devon moved quickly and efficiently.  He ordered water and bandages brought, then leaned over his best friend, and as carefully as he could broke off the tip of the arrow.  He took hold of the wounded shoulder with one hand, the arrow with the other. Taking a deep breath he held it, and in one smooth motion pulled the broken arrow out and discarded it on the road. 

             
Katelyn wet a rag with water from a canteen and began to wipe as carefully as she could at the wounds on both sides.  She needed to make sure that no dirt was in them to cause an infection.  When she finished, she wrapped the shoulder to cover both sides while Devon held his arm out of the way.  They then laid him gently on his back.

             
“We need a litter,” she ordered, not seeing who jumped to obey.  “Should he be unconscious?”

             
“I don’t know,” Devon frowned.  “His horse was heading this way when I found him.  It doesn’t look like he lost too much blood.”  The two of them exchanged concerned glances.  They were both thinking the same thing.  Poison. 

             
Devon picked up the arrow’s tip and studied it closely.  “There is something on it, but I do not think it was poison.  It looks more like dried blood.  Not his though.  It has been there a while.”

             
“Could that cause an infection?” she asked with a chill.  Infections from wounds killed more than wounds themselves did.

             
“I cannot say for sure.  If I had to guess, I would say most likely not.  If it is infected it is from something else, but he does not show any other symptoms yet.”

             
She nodded.  “Then we have to move.”  She stood, but still looked down at his body.  “Captain!”  She waited for him to come near.  “Get the men ready to ride.  As soon as the litter is built we are leaving.”  She did not wait for his salute before turning to Devon.  “Ride ahead.  If you can find a healer send him back.  I want you to go straight to Summerhall and bring back Gelarus.” Devon left immediately.  She hoped the Wizard was there.  Katelyn watched the preparations around her, then turned her attention back to the man who lay at her feet.  She had never felt so helpless in her life. 

Chapter 12

A Meeting of Minds

              Katelyn climbed back into the coach.  The gray light announced the coming of dawn.  She could make out the still form of Coran, lying on his litter that had been placed above the forward bench.  It was too long to fit on the bench itself so it was suspended between the two windows.  The handles used to carry it stuck out on either side.  Another form moved in the dark interior of the coach and resolved into a sleepy Alys.

             
“Did you eat anything?” the girl who had become as close to her as her sister asked.  “You need to eat.  You will not do anyone any good if you pass out from hunger.”

             
“I ate a little,” Katelyn lied.  She did not want Alys to worry, but she could not eat.  Not yet.  “Anything?” she asked hopefully.

             
“No.”  The sadness in her answer was clearly apparent.  “His fever is no less and he still calls for you at times.”

             
“Go and eat something yourself.  We will be leaving soon.”  They had traveled all day and through the night with only short stops to water and rest the horses.  If they could keep up the same pace they might reach Summerhall by midnight.  Devon might reach them sooner, but it would be hard for him to be traveling much faster than they were.

             
When Alys left her, she sat down and took Coran’s unmoving hand in hers.  Without anyone to see she allowed the tears to come.  Within a couple of hours of the attack, his fever had started.  It grew worse, until the last few hours when it seemed to be holding steady.  That was still not a good thing.  His forehead felt like fire to the touch and they kept freshly soaked towels on it to try and keep it cool.  His breathing became ragged and his pulse beat weakly.  He had remained silent until after the fever took hold.  That was when she could no longer hold back the tears.  Alys had to hold her until she could regain control of herself.  Over and over again he called her name.  He never spoke another.  He mumbled once and a while, but nothing they could make out.  The only word they could understand was ‘Katelyn’.  It tore at her heart every time she heard it.  If she had another chance she would make sure he knew how she felt about him.   

             
“Katelyn,” the whisper came from his dry lips.  His head moved slightly from side to side as he spoke.  “Katelyn.” 

             
She prayed that Devon hurried, and hoped that Gelarus was in Summerhall.  No one would have a better chance of healing Coran than the most powerful wizard in Midia.  If she only knew what was wrong, she might be able to do something herself.

             
“Katelyn,” he was calling her and she did not know how to answer.   

             
She wept.

              He had to find her.  He did not know why, but he had to.  She was here somewhere, and finding her was important.  He had been wandering the hallways of rough cut stone for hours.  He called her name hoping each time for a response, and each time there was none.  Torches were spaced along the walls too far apart to illuminate the entire hall, which left areas of shadow between the pools of light.  He went up narrow stairways and turned down twisted corridors without seeing or hearing another soul. 

             
He wondered at where he was.  It was no place he recognized from experience or from descriptions by others that he could remember.  He thought he might be dreaming, yet no dream of his had ever felt so real.  To experiment, he touched the stones of one wall and found them cold.  He stretched a hand towards a flaming torch and he could feel the heat against his skin.  Everything seemed so real.  The air felt heavy and after a while he had trouble breathing.  His head felt warmer every time he checked with the back of his hand.  He had to find her soon.  He called to her again, but there was no response.  For some reason he didn’t really expect any. 

             
He struggled on until he rounded a corner and stopped before an arched doorway.  A heavy ironbound door blocked his way.  It was the first door he had encountered in his search through the labyrinth.  He reached for the iron ring set in the wood and pulled.  The door was even heavier than it looked.  He had to use both hands as the door screeched open in protest.  He stepped into the room beyond.

             
The chamber was more poorly lit than the halls.  Only a fire burning in the round pit at the room’s center gave off any light.  The room itself was round.  There were no other openings and no furniture of any sort.  The only other thing to occupy the circular chamber was a figure, standing at the other side of the room, completely hidden by the dark robe it wore.

             
“I have been waiting for you,” the figure spoke in a strong, deep voice.

             
“Who are you?” Coran questioned.  He knew he should be wary of the figure, maybe even frightened, but he was having enough trouble breathing without trying to run away.

             
“I should be asking you.  That is why I am here.”

             
“Where are we?” 

             
“That is a difficult question to answer.”  The figure sounded amused.  “I am here, in this room, but is it really a room?”

             
He shook his head in confusion.  As he did the room wavered at the edges of his vision.  
It isn’t real!  It has to be a dream
, he thought to himself.

             
“A dream, yes, but that does not make it any less real,” the figure said, reading his mind.  “I told you it was difficult.  Now, I do not have much time, and neither do you.”  That last was definitely said with amusement.  Coran had the feeling he was being examined.  Not by eyes, but by senses.  Could he be a wizard of some sort? 

“There is little power in you.”  Its voice turned to confusion.  “Did he mark the right man?”

              “Who?”  Then he had an idea and things clicked into place.  “You mean Naras?”

             
Instead of being annoyed the figure did not sound like it cared that he knew at all.  “He revealed himself to you?  No matter.  Perhaps you are the one,” he said thoughtfully.  “This could be difficult, yet worth the price if it gives me what I need.”

             
“What do you need?  What are you talking about?”

             
The figure ignored him.  Coran didn’t see it cross the space between them, but one moment it was on the other side of the fire and the next the figure was beside him, holding his wrist in an iron grip.  A long sharp fingernail preceded a pale thin finger from the sleeve of the robe.  The nail scratched his hand.  Its other hand released its grip and Coran looked at the drops of blood that had escaped his skin. 

             
“What are you doing?” he asked with a genuine curiosity, and a little fear.

             
“Memories can be carried by blood.  I want to see where you came from.”  He let the drop of blood from his nail fall to the cold stone floor.

             
Coran found himself atop a high wall looking down on a scene of madness.  The field below was a sea of moving men.  There must have been tens of thousands and all were moving towards the black fortress he guarded, a fortress that lay in the heart of the Sauron Mountains.  It was the great city of Mon Vusaar, and he was Gethmon Derosian su Tyelin, guardian of the southern gates.  Those gates still stood, but the fortress that had never fallen was about to be overrun.  How he knew that he could not explain, but he was sure of it.  Scaling ladders and ropes lined the wall in both directions as men in scale plate armor and wearing helmets that  revealed only their eyes tried to force their way over the battlements.  A head popped up in front of him and he reacted instantly with his heavy blade, the headless corpse falling backwards to hinder its comrades coming up behind.  To his right the defenders were being pushed back and a flood of the enemy poured out onto the walls.  Gethmon hefted his sword and with a great cry for the Silver Hawk he charged towards his certain death.

             
Coran gasped as he returned from the image of destruction.  He was back in the round chamber with the dark robed figure.  It was strange.  For those few seconds he had been Gethmon Derosian su Tyelin.  Coran recognized the name.  Gethmon had been the Lord of Tyelin when Mon Vusaar had fallen.  From what he knew of history, Gethmon had survived the assault.  He later fought at Tyelin, and then with Soros.

             
“Your blood is strong, very strong,” the figure said, and Coran thought he detected a note of weariness.  If it is that strong for the past I must try the future.”  Before Coran could say anything the figure let another drop of blood fall.

             
There was no sense of being anywhere.  There was no grass or walls or sky.  Two people appeared in the air before them.  One was Coran, dressed in armor and wearing the Silver Hawk of Tyelin.  The only difference was the banner that hung straight out, as if held by invisible hands.  On a white background was a long sword, colored a silverish-blue.  It stood point up.  Coran could not be sure, but it fit the description of a sword of legend.  The one people called ‘Ice’.  The other image was of Katelyn.  She wore a shirt of deep blue and black pants.  Her hair was swept back and a golden crown circled her head.  A banner stood behind her as well.  It was the banner of Summerhall with one difference.  A red rose basked in the rays emanating out from the sun.  The image vanished and the figure in the chamber hissed in surprise and hatred.  “It is you!”

             
“Who do you think I am?” Coran asked even more confused by the other’s reaction.

             
“No matter,” the figure said more calmly.  “Now that I know you I will give you one chance.  Serve me.”

             
Coran knew that they were not idle words.  The figure meant for him to serve completely, with body and soul.  He knew that his answer would be one of the most important decisions of his life.  “I will not.”

             
“No?  Even now your body is dying.  Do you not feel it?”  The figure was back to being amused.  “You have no more choices.  You will serve me or die.  Only I can save you.”

             
He knew the hooded ...thing was not bluffing.  He now understood the trouble with his breathing and why he felt so hot.  He remembered the arrow and knew.  None of that mattered.  “I will not serve you.”

             
“Do you think you are safe from me here?”  He no longer sounded amused.  “You are wrong.”

             
There was pain.  Every part of his body was on fire.  Inside and out it was like being stabbed with white hot needles.  He screamed until he no longer had breath, and somehow he still went on screaming.  The sound went through him and he could not tell if he was really screaming or if it was in his mind. 

              Katelyn was worried.  He had stopped mumbling, and no longer called her name.  He made no more sounds at all.  His face was paler and hot to the touch.  She did not think he would make it all the way to Summerhall.  They still had several hours left until they could get there.                

             
The coach slowed, then came to a stop.  She glanced outside at the darkening sky.  Alys woke up from where she had been sleeping on the bench, her head resting against the side of the coach.  “Is it time to stop?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

             
“I don’t know,” Katelyn replied feeling tired herself.  She had gotten little sleep in their dash across the plain.  She didn’t think it was time for another stop, but she had lost track of time. 

             
Voices could be heard talking outside, and someone mentioned riders approaching.  She sat up straight, hoping that help had finally arrived.  She heard the jingle of the harnesses coming closer. The sound stopped and a moment later Gelarus opened the coach door and climbed in. 

             
She was never more relieved to see his wrinkled face and white hair.  The old wizard went directly to Coran’s side.  He peered at the stricken man for a long moment, feeling his forehead, looking at his hands, and lastly checking his wound by peeling back the bandage.  Katelyn waited, barely controlling herself.  Finally she decided she could take it no longer.

             
“Can you help him?” she asked more shrilly than she had intended.  “He will die if you do not.”  She surprised herself at saying it out loud.  In some foolish way she thought that if she refused to say it then it would not be possible.  Gelarus was here though, and that would make the difference.

             
“Yes.  He will.  But there is nothing I can do,” the wizard stated evenly.  “I studied the point of the arrow Devon brought me.  It was used to force a link between someone and Coran.”

             
Katelyn was too stunned to speak.  He had admitted that he would die if he did nothing.  He had to help.  There was no one else.  What he was saying penetrated her concern.  “What do you mean by a link?”