Shadowbred (32 page)

The man pulled up his hood and stood, and his cloak changed appearance to keep him camouflaged. He looked once more on the camp. He appeared able to see despite the datkness, leaving Cale to assume he was magically empowered with night sight.

Seemingly satisfied, the man turned and headed off at a steady run. Cale decided not to kill him—yet. He sheathed Weaveshear and followed in silence.

The magic of the man’s cloak masked him well even on the move, but Cale was able to stay close enough to keep him in sight. The man made almost no sound, even at a trot. Cale marked him as a professional—a spy or scout. The man headed directly for a pair of tall larches about three hundred paces off. He slowed as he approached the trees and pulled back his hood.

Cale stayed with him as another man emerged from the darkness of the trees. He was taller, eight or nine winters older, and wearing a cloak similar to the first man’s. They hailed each other in silence and did not speak until they were nearly face to face.

Cale crept forward, low to the ground, and strained his ears to hear.

“… only a single guard. Could have put him down myself and moved through the camp.” Not likely, Cale thought.

The taller man nodded. “Did you mark the livery, Othel? They’re Selgauntans and that’s certain.”

“There’s not even a score of men,” Othel said. “Should be easy work,” the taller man said.

With that, they set off, moving in a line to the north of the camp. Cale stayed with them. They ran for perhaps half a league and slowed to a walk as they neared a drought-dried pond ringed by tall elms. Both removed their cloaks as they approached.

Cale shadowstepped ahead of them into the trees and saw gathered there a force of over one hundred men. All wore chain hauberks, bore shields and blades, and wore on their green tabards the golden wagon wheel of Ordulin.

Cale crouched low against the bole of an elm and stayed at the edge of the camp.

The group’s horses stood in a makeshift pen of rope strung between some trees. All were saddled and ready to ride. The men burned no fires and none slept despite the hour. They only waited.

A murmur went through the camp as the news of the scouts’ arrival reached them. All stood. Mail chinked as they adjusted armor and shields.

A tall man with iron gray hair and a thick moustache stalked toward the scouts. Eight other men followed him. Cale noted two unarmored, robed men among them—mages, he presumed—and two long-haired men with lightning bolts on their shields. Cale recognized them as war priests and the lightning bolts as holy symbols, but he could not recall which god was symbolized by the bolts.

The two scouts approached the tall, gray-haired man and saluted.

“Report,” said the gray-haired man.

“The Selgauntan delegation is camped half a league to the south,” said Othel. “They expect no danger and have posted only a single guard.”

Cale saw disappointment in the expressions of many of the men who overheard. Several chuckled and shook their heads in disbelief. Apparently, they were hoping for a hard fight. Cale did not understand why forces from Ordulin would attack the Selgauntans, but there was no mistaking what he’d heard.

“Get the men enspelied for night fighting,” the leader said to the two mages. The wizards nodded, reached to cases at their belts, and pulled out metal wands capped with cat’s eye chrysoberyls.

“Form up,” the blond-haired mage said to the men, and the force shuffled into orderly rows. The two mages started on opposite sides of the formation and began moving efficiently from man to man, tapping each with the wand. Each time, the recipient’s eyes flared red for an instant.

Meanwhile, the gray-haired leader said to his sergeants and war priests, “This is a sweep and clean. We approach under sound cover from Vors and Paalin.”

“Survivors, Malkur?” one of the priests asked.

Cale recognized the name Malkur from somewhere but could not place it.

“No prisoners,” Malkur answered. “As I said, a full sweep and clean.”

The mages finished their work and Malkur turned to one of his sergeants, a scarred, dark-haired man fairly covered in throwing knives.

“Give the order, Enken. Let’s mount up.”

Enken nodded. “Aye, sir.” He turned and issued orders to the men to mount up and take positions by squad.

The men moved briskly to their horses and checked their gear. Cale figured the Selgauntans had half an hour, maybe less, before the force of soldiers swept down on them. He wrestled wirh the notion of killing a few of the leaders before leaving, but decided against it. He did not want them to know they’d been discovered. The Selgauntans could not fight; they’d have to run, and Cale knew killing a few leaders would make no difference.

His mind made up, he drew the shadows around him, imagined the Selgauntans’ campsite in his mind, and rode the night there in an instant.

He found himself standing before the glowing embers of the campfire with his holy symbol in hand. He stared at the mask, puzzled. He had not taken it from his pocket, had he? He had no time to consider. He let the shadows fall from him so he would be visible.

Maur still stood at his post at the top of the depression, looking out over the plains.

“Maur,” Cale called, and the house guard eyed him with wonder. “Get down here.”

Maur hurried down, his long hair flapping behind him.

“Where did you come from, Mister Cale? I was watching the approaches.”

Cale did not bother to explain. “Saddle the horses, Maur. As fast as you can. We will soon be attacked.”

Maur’s expression turned to alarm. “What? How do you—”

“Do it,” Cale said. He left Maur and moved from tent to tent. “Up, men. Now! Up. On your feet.”

Groggy heads emerged from tents.

Cale did not shout but spoke loudly enough for his voice to be heard. He clutched his mask in his shadowhand. “This campsite will be overrun by cavalry in less than half an hour unless we are gone from here. Gear up and mount up.”

Cale could not keep the shadows from bleeding out of his flesh. No one seemed to notice in the darkness.

The house guards asked no questions. They shook the sleep from their heads, stepped out of their tents, and pulled on hauberks, belted on blades, and donned helms. They moved with alacrity, one man helping another.

Cale saw Ren slipping into his hauberk. Cale went to him and reported what he had learned.

“One hundred horsemen are north of us and are planning to attack. Get some men to help Maur with the horses. We need to move. This instant.”

“Dark,” Ren oathed, fastening the buckle on his weapon belt. “How do you know this?”

“I spotted one of their scouts at the edge of our camp and followed him back.”

Ren nodded, capped his head in a helm, and started barking orders at the men. “Leave everything except arms and armor. Get the horses saddled. My lord,” Ren said, turning to face Tamlin, who had emerged from his tent.

“What is happening?” Tamlin asked, looking around the bustling camp. He had already put on his boots and thrown on a cloak.

“We must ride south, my lord,” Cale said. “And we must do so quickly. Gathet only your essential things.”

“Maur!” Ren called above the tumult. “Ready Lord Uskevren’s horse! Oaasim, help Maur with the horses.”

Tamlin watched with bemusement as a house guard hopped by, pulling on his boot as he moved toward the horses.

“Stop,” Tamlin said, but no one listened. He grabbed Ren by the shoulder and said, “Explain what is happening.”

Before Ren could reply, Cale answered, “My lord, nearly one hundred mounted men wait not far from here. Seasoned men. They have priests and wizards among them. They wear Ordulin’s colors and mean to attack us.”

Shadows streamed from Cale’s flesh as he spoke and Tamlin watched them spiral into the night. Cale’s words appeared to register with him.

“Ordulin’s colors?” Tamlin asked, and shook his head. “That does not make sense, Mister Cale. If they wear Ordulin’s colors, then they must be an escort.”

“Lord Uskevren, they are no escort. I know with certainty that they mean to attack. I heard them say as much. I cannot explain why but it is so.” He gestured toward the horses. “Please, Lord. I will gather your things.”

“You heard them?” Tamlin asked. “How? Were you away from the camp?”

“My lord,” Ren said to Tamlin, and tried to steer him toward the horses. “I think we would be well-advised to heed Mister Cale.”

Tamlin turned to Ren with ice in his eyes. “You would be better served by heeding me, house guard.”

Ren let his hand fall from Tamlin’s arm and stammered, “Of course, Hulorn. I meant only …”

Cale cut him off. “We are wasting time on irrelevancies.”

Tamlin glared at Cale. “Did you say ‘irrelevancies’?”

Cale could not keep the anger from his tone. “Yes. This is not about what is between you and me. Your own safety and that of your men is at stake. Ten times our number is going to ride down on us. You must run. All of us must run or die.”

“Run? I am no coward. And I did not think you were, either.”

Cale’s anger flared at Tamlin’s false bravado. He grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him from his feet, regretting it almost instantly. Shadows swirled around them both.

Ren looked shocked. The camp fell silent. Cale felt the eyes of the house guards on him. Tamlin looked first afraid, then enraged.

“Take your hands from me, Mister Cale,” he said tightly. “Now.”

Cale calmed himself, released him, and offered a half bow.

“My apologies, my lord. I am … concerned. It is not cowardice to flee from a superior force. If you try to make a stand here, all of us will die.”

“I am not convinced that these riders you think you saw mean us ill,” Tamlin said coolly.

Cale struggled to keep his voice level. “I stood invisibly among them, Hulorn. Their leader is called Malkur. I do not merely think I saw anything. I do not merely think I heard anything. I did see, and I did hear. Again, if we stand, we die.”

Ren looked at Cale intently. “Malkur? Malkur Forrin?”

Cale shrugged. He did not know the man’s surname. “Tall, gray haired, with a moustache.”

“Yes, that is him,” Ren said, and turned to Tamlin. “My lord, Malkur Forrin is a former general in the Sembian army. He now heads a mercenary band. They have a dark reputation.”

“But they wear Ordulin’s colors,” Tamlin said. “How could Malkur Forrin—”

“Ignore the damned colors they wear!” Cale snapped. “If the riders meant you no harm why would they approach by night? Why not await the day? Why not sound a greeting? Surely an escort force would do exactly that. These are mercenaries, whatever colors they wear.”

Tamlin opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and frowned. “A good point,” he acknowledged at last.

Cale seized on the opening. He could not waste any more time with further discussions.

“Move out as quietly as you can,” he said to Ren. “I will delay them.”

“Delay them?” Tamlin and Ren said simultaneously.

Cale reached into his pocket and clutched his holy symbol.

“Leave it to me. I will catch up when I can.”

“Catch up?” Tamlin asked. “You intend to remain?”

“I work best alone, my lord,” Cale answered. “I will catch up. I can move very quickly when I have need. Faster than the horses. You know that.”

Ren oathed. Tamlin eyed Cale thoughtfully, nodded, and said, “Yes, of course.”

To Ren, Cale said, “Take Vos with you. I will not need him until we rendezvous. Ride due south, cut across the countryside. Do not take the road. Move fast but quietly. I do not want them to know we have abandoned the camp until they are upon it.”

Ren nodded and Cale turned to Tamlin. “My lord? Will you go? Now, please?”

Tamlin nodded. Cale said, “Do not use your spells unless you must, otherwise you will betray your position.”

Tamlin glared at him. “You ate not to issue orders to me, Mister Cale.”

Cale did not give voice to his anger lest he say something to further sour their relationship.

Ren tried to diffuse matters by gesturing at the horses. “My lord, your horse is ready. Please, this way.”

Cale and Tamlin stared at one another a moment longer before Tamlin turned and walked to his horse.

As rhe men formed up, Cale called to Ren and Tamlin, “Stay as quiet as you can until you know they have marked you. If we are quiet, they may miss us in the darkness.” He paused, then said to Tamlin, “We must return to Selgaunt, my lord.”

Tamlin nodded absently.

Ren reached down to take Cale’s forearm. “Tymora watch you, Erevis.”

Cale knew it was not Tymora’s aid that he would need, but Mask’s. He said, “And you, Ren. And you, Lord Uskevren.”

Tamlin said nothing and the men spurred their mounts and rode due west at a moderate gallop. Cale winced at the noise they made, though they were as quiet as they could be.

He shadowstepped to the top of the declivity and looked north. He did not see the mercenaries, but his nightvision extended only so far. Given their numbers, he knew he would hear them before he saw them.

He looked at the mask in his hand. He remembered the Shadowlord’s words to him: Do what you were called to do. Cale donned the mask.

He calmed himself and opened his mind to the Shadowlord. It was after midnight—the time he would ordinarily pray for spells— and he did not have time for his usual meditations, but he hoped Mask would answer his request nevertheless.

He sent forth his consciousness and requested that Mask fuel his mind with the power to cast spells, spells that would harm and mislead. He took a deep breath, let the shadows enfold him, and repeated the request.

Power rushed into his mind, one spell, another, another. He tensed as the familiar rush filled his brain; he grinned at the familiarity of it.

A voice from beside him whispered in his ear, “You are late, as usual. But welcome back. Almost there, now.”

Cale whirled and looked to his side, but saw only darkness, only shadows. His skin was goose pimpled.

He looked north across the plains and saw the entire company of mercenaries bearing down on the campsite at a full gallop. They made no sound as they approached; their clerics must have silenced them. The whipgrass hid the horses’ legs from view. The whole force looked as if it were floating.