Journey Of Thieves (Book 5) (7 page)

The boat dipped wildly from side to side, nearly capsizing, until I redistributed my weight. It was small, made to hold no more than one person, as evidenced by the single paddle I found at my feet. I picked the thing up and dipped it experimentally into the water. I had no experience steering boats, and this seemed the worst place to learn. Fully in the grip of the current, the vessel shot forward at alarming speed. I tried not to think what would happen if I fell overboard. I was a fair swimmer, but the quiet pools and meandering creeks of Dimmingwood were no comparison to what I faced here. I would be entirely at the mercy of the river.

Even now I could hardly see what lay ahead in the darkness and could only vaguely make out the cliffs rushing past on either side. If a floating log or other obstacle appeared in my path, I would be helpless to steer around it in time. Imagining the boat dashed against some rock and me dragged away by the stream, I asked myself again if I was making a huge mistake.

I half turned to look back at Swiftsfell, but the cliff village had already disappeared from view. It was just me and the swirling waters now as I plunged on into the night. I wondered if I would survive to see morning.

Dawn’s first light found me cold, wet, and exhausted after a night spent battling the river. But at least I was alive. At the first shades of gray in the sky, I began scanning the shoreline anxiously. I had studied Calder’s map until it was imprinted on my mind, and I knew exactly what landmarks to look out for.

It wasn’t long before I recognized the first marker. The leaning tower of rock on the near shore jutted into the sky, rising higher than the cliffs to either side. I steered toward the shore, grateful the current had slowed some miles back, allowing me to maneuver the boat with relative ease.

The rocky landing rose in a steep incline. There was no gradual bottoming out. My craft simply slammed into the rock, and I had to leap immediately ashore. Half dragging, half lifting the boat after me, I was thankful for its lightweight construction.

When I straightened and looked around, the first thing I took in was the changed terrain. This landscape was even harsher than what I had left behind. Here there was no grass to be seen, and the only trees were low and scraggly and looked half-dead. Great cliffs rose on all sides, except directly ahead, where I could make out the purple shapes of mountains rising in the distance. The Arxus Mountains, marking the last border of the provinces, were my destination. When I stood on those mountains, I would be on unfamiliar ground, but my enemies would be all too comfortable there.

I swallowed. But this was no time to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of my mission or the low odds of success. I must keep going, one step at a time. So I refilled my waterskin, partially depleted from the long night. The land ahead was a desert place, and according to the map, there were few sources of water once I left the riverside. I summoned my resolve, shouldered my travelers pack, and set out.

It was midafternoon when I made my first stop. I had walked hours without rest, and the sun was now high in the sky. I took shelter in the shade of a tall boulder, where I had a few sips of water before chewing one of the rough strips of jerky I had brought with me.

Waves of heat rose from the rocky ground, reflecting the sun’s rays and increasing my discomfort. I would have to be careful of my water supply. I wiped beads of sweat from my brow and closed my eyes for a second, envisioning the cool shadows of Dimmingwood.

Then I shook myself. The longer I sat here, the weaker I would grow and the more I would deplete my rations. I had to keep moving. My feet, unused to ground that alternated between sand and shale, ached in protest as I shouldered my waterskin and walked on.

I was so distracted by my discomforts that I did not immediately notice I was being followed. It came as a gradual realization, the feeling of unseen eyes watching me, the eerie sensation creeping down the back of my neck. I had felt this before leading up to the mysterious attack at the stream outside Swiftsfell. The half-healed wound between my neck and shoulder smarted at the memory. The dragon attack had driven from my mind the fact I was being tracked by a deadly stranger, but my fears were revived now.

Uneasily, I looked around. Nothing moved on the horizon. With no foe in sight, there was nothing I could do but continue on. Still, I cast constant looks behind me and felt a growing conviction it would not be long before my enemy made his next move.

A sudden noise bounced across the walls of a canyon, a sliding, shattering sound as if someone had unsettled a lot of rocks and sent them tumbling from a height. It was alarmingly close. I scanned the cliffs rearing up on either side of me. Anyone could be peering down on me from the safe vantage point of one of those ridges. But I glimpsed no flurry of movement and nothing out of place. The nervous feeling that I wasn’t alone was growing stronger.

Intentionally dropping my waterskin and turning back to fetch it, I used the opportunity to look surreptitiously behind me. But here too there was nothing to be seen. Only the miles of rocky ground I had already traversed, with the constant rock walls and boulders lining the way.

I thought of the black-cloaked attacker who had nearly killed me only days before. I had not seen him coming until it was nearly too late. If he were following me again, he had an even better opportunity now to destroy me. I was utterly alone, having slipped away from the relative protection of my friends. And these surroundings were an ideal place for a bowman to hunt his prey. There was no place for me to run and few spots that would make suitable cover. Even now, he could be looking down from an outcropping or peering around a boulder, waiting for his perfect shot.

Hopelessly exposed in the open, it was all I could do not to make a mad dash for the closest shelter. But if my enemy had me in range at this very moment, the last thing I wanted was to alarm him into immediate action. Instead I forced myself to move slowly and casually to the towering rock wall along my path. I had spotted a big, shady cleft cut out of the wall, and as I climbed a pile of rubble to reach it, I unshouldered my traveling pack as if I planned to rest when I reached the top.

In the shadow of the cleft, I was sheltered from attack from most directions. No enemy could reach me here unless he dropped all subtlety and came at me directly. I had bought myself a few minutes to think, to form a plan. What I needed was to turn the tables on him, to know his exact position while leaving him guessing at mine. But how to accomplish that?

An unexpected tingling sensation brushed the edges of my consciousness. This wasn’t the natural instinct that had first alerted me to danger. It was something different, that little tickle along my senses that said my magic had picked up the presence of another person. Startled, I reached into the loose neck of my tunic and drew out the glossy dragon scale from Myria. The augmenter dangled at the end of its chain. I was still learning to use the thing, still unused to drawing magic through this new source to bring my powers back to life. Did I dare trust it now?

I had no choice. It was telling me something, warning that my enemy was approaching from the same direction I had come. At least I now knew he wasn’t ahead of me or stationed in the heights above.

I saw my opportunity. There was a tall pile of rocks against the crevice where I lurked. I scrambled to the back of the heap and began carefully scaling the rocks. Despite my caution, I sent streams of pebbles raining in all directions. I could only hope my pursuer did not see or hear the disturbances. From the top of the heap, I could look down on the cleft in the rock, where I’d hid only minutes ago. There was nothing to see yet, but I felt the approach of that other presence. His slowness signaled caution, hinting he was unsure what he would find ahead. Good.

I waited, pressed flat against the hot rocks, tension making the sweat stream from my pores. My mouth was as rough and dry as the desert sand, my heartbeat pulsing in my ears. Then I saw him. The black-cloaked figure approached my former hiding place, creeping toward the rocky crevice with the wariness of a hunter stalking his prey. If he knew I was no longer resting within the shadows, he gave no sign of it. I could make out little of him from this higher vantage point, could discern only that he was tall and young. His hood was thrown back against the heat, affording me a view of the top of his head and his close-cropped, brown hair.

But what commanded my attention above all else wasn’t the young man but the weapon he carried. A longbow. I stared, transfixed. It couldn’t be. Surely my eyes were failing me or the heat had driven me mad. There could be no other explanation for what I saw. For it was no ordinary bow he carried.

It was mine.

My old bow, enchanted with the twisted magic that had eventually forced me to discard it. Weeks ago, before setting out on this journey, I had tossed the thing into the falls above Red Rock, never to be seen again. Yet here it was now. I could feel it, could sense the life humming within it as I used to in the old days. It fairly glowed with a power of its own, a magic I remembered all too well. My mind rushed back to the broken arrow I had kept after the attempt on my life. No wonder it had emitted an almost tangible aura that I had been aware of despite the stunted state of my magic. It had come into contact with the bow, which I would recognize anywhere.

I shook myself and forced my attention back to the danger at hand. A fresh arrow was nocked to that bow now, and it was meant for me. I licked my lips and silently drew a knife from my sleeve. But my movement upset a nearby stone and sent it tumbling with a noisy clatter.

My enemy’s head whipped around at the sound and he half turned, bow at the ready.

Unwilling to give him time to take aim, I leaped down on top of him. My weight slammed into him and bore us both to the ground. The impact of our collision knocked the breath from my lungs, but to remain motionless until I could breathe again would mean death. Ignoring the pain in my chest, I plunged my knife at my adversary’s shoulder. But he recovered from his surprise in time to catch my wrist in midair and turn the blade away from him. Unable to twist free of his powerful grip, I fumbled with my free hand to draw my second knife. I stabbed it into the only place I could easily reach from this position, his upper thigh.

It was a glancing blow. I hadn’t much strength to put into it, but it was enough. He screamed in pain, instantly releasing his grip on my wrist. In the same moment, I discovered I could breathe again and sucked in great gulps of air even as I wriggled off the prone form of my enemy and groped after the bow that had been knocked from his hands.

Writhing and clutching his injury, my enemy didn’t try to stop me.

My fingers closed around the elderwood arm of the bow. Immediately my fears abated, and confidence surged through me. My feelings or those belonging to the bow? It didn’t matter. When my other hand, fumbling in the sand, found the loose arrow it sought, I scrambled to my feet.

My opponent, finally realizing his predicament, unbent from his pained posture to grab at my legs, but I kicked free. Panting from the struggle, I stood over my fallen enemy and trained the arrow at him. It was strange, feeling the smooth elderwood in my hands again. But I couldn’t let myself be distracted by the familiar sensations it awakened in me or by the soft, welcoming whisper I could almost hear stirring through the back of my mind.

“Tell me why you’ve been trailing me,” I demanded of the stranger at my feet. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

He glared up at me with eyes that seemed, once again, hauntingly familiar.

Although he still gripped his wounded thigh, his anger was so intense he seemed to forget his pain and the blood trickling past his fingers. “I hunt you because I was paid to do it,” he spat. “But I’d have taken the job for nothing, if only to avenge my father, dead at your hands. Or near enough by your doing as to make no difference.”

I stared as questions tumbled around in my head. I had made my share of enemies in the past, but who could want me dead badly enough to hire an assassin to track me across the provinces? And more to the point, most of my enemies were the sort who would come after me themselves if they wanted to kill me. I couldn’t think of anyone with the means or inclination to send this person.

Yet the words that found their way out of my mouth weren’t about that at all. “Whose death do you speak of? Who was your father?”

My words sounded rough, but looking on a face as familiar to me as if I were seeing a ghost, my stomach squirmed.

His eyes were defiant. “My father was Brig. An outlaw of Dimmingwood.”

The name, even though part of me had been expecting it, struck like a blow.

He sneered at my stricken expression. “I see you remember him now. Doubtless it’s hard to forget a friend you betrayed to his death.”

Even stunned as I was, I could not let that pass. “I never betrayed Brig,” I murmured. “He was like a father to me, and I cared about him to the last. When he was dead, I killed the man who turned on him, a spy named Resid.”

But I wasn’t thinking about the explanation as I gave it. Instead my mind was yanked powerfully back into the past.

I was a small child, lying in a pile of moldy leaves in a cave hidden deep in the heart of Dimmingwood. Feigning sleep, I eavesdropped on the conversation of the two men standing over me.

“Brig, you know this child’s not yours to keep, right?” one of them asked. “You understand she can’t stay long in Dimmingwood? Your sons are gone and Netta with them. There’s no bringing your family back or replacing them with this girl.”

Right from the beginning, that was the first thing I learned of Brig, the man who saved my life and eventually adopted me. That he had once had a family, and they were gone. He would never speak of where they were or why they had left him, although others would gossip behind his back. Exactly what had become of his two small sons was always a mystery to me. Until today.