The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (7 page)

The apprentice crept back to the front of the compound before he descended back over the fence.  Wantran was still searching in vain near the warehouse, flashes of light illuminating the shadows briefly but brightly enough to banish them for a moment as he employed magelights and other spells in search of his prey. 
If only I was a shadowmage and could sneak up behind him,
Tyndal mused to himself,
then maybe I could put a sword in his back.  Unsubtle, but . . .

Then he stopped himself. 
Why couldn’t I?

The idea formed quickly into a plan.  It was haphazard and stupid – likely terminally so – but it also amused Tyndal.  That, as much as the possibility he’d succeed, was enough to convince him to do it.  He slipped the mageblade off of his back and waited for Wantran to turn away before he dropped it just outside of the fence.  It tumbled quietly behind the discouraged-looking little knee-high bush that had grown there, flashing some green fire as it landed.  He might need it later.

He had to wait until Wantran was turned around again before he could continue, tucking his wand behind his back.  When his boots hit the hard-packed dirt of the road he sprinted across it to the other side, just as the big Censor turned around.

“Hey!” Tyndal yelled.  “My lord!”

The Censor nearly took his head off with his sword, but Tyndal resolutely jutted out his jaw as he skidded to a halt on the cobbles.

“I just spoke with my master,” he said, ignoring the mageblade as he strode forward.  “He says that I was in error in refunding your money.  I’m to ask for it
back,
if you please, and—”

“Boy, do you have any idea how dangerous it is out here?” the mage demanded angrily.  “There’s a sorcerer about, and he’s already tried to kill us once tonight!”

“That’s not my concern,” Tyndal continued, indignantly.  “MY master says I need to collect that coin, and I do what MY master tells me too!”  He was mere feet from the man, now.  He kept his face a mask of idiocy.  He could not falter.

“Tell your master to ride Huin’s lumpy log to his sister’s brothel—
just get off the street,
you idiot!” he said, his cheeks puffing under his cloth coif.  Wantran looked around frantically while he spoke, wand in one hand, blade in the other, searching for the elusive mage. 

“You’ve got a lot of gall, my lord, telling
me
– hey, who’s
that?
” he asked, doing his best to pitch his voice toward curiosity, not panic.

Wantran whirled, his warwand extended . . . and several spells on his person began to respond to his commands.  Tyndal tried not to even
think
about what he was doing.  He knew his moment had come.  He had to act, and not worry about the consequences. 

He slid the slender warwand from behind his back, stuck it a handbreadth away from Wantran’s back, and he whispered the command.  The wand delivered its blast with an angry report, shattering into splinters in his hand in the process.  It had the desired effect, flinging the Censor backward.  He tumbled ten paces afar, arse over elbows, his checkered cloak fluttering crazily over his head.  There was a big smudge in it now, Tyndal realized in a daze.

Wantran’s head turned in the dust, peering over at him unsteadily, and from a sharp angle.  The concussion hadn’t been enough to knock him out, Tyndal realized in despair, just knock him down.  The Censor’s eyes swam, and then focused all too quickly.  Warmagic.

“You!” he spat harshly.  “
You’re
the spark!”

“Yep.  Catch!” he said, tossing a pebble from his hand.

It had taken two hours the first time Master Minalan had shown him this spell, one of the very first.  It was only two years ago when he was
just
a stableboy learning about his Talent.  Two hours of intense concentration and raising power and manifesting energy into basic symbols in that one little spell.  Another mere essay – display magic, impressive but not particularly useful.  But now when he had put it between his fingers and drew power from his witchstone, Tyndal’s spell was ready in two
heartbeats.
 

The pebble flew in a lazy arc, bounced once off of Wantran’s breastplate . . . and flashed with the light of a hundred candles for an instant.  It did no harm, but it did make seeing anything difficult for a few moments, and damn difficult to concentrate or visualize anything.  The way the river mists were thickening, when Wantran arose he wouldn’t have any idea where he’d gone.  With Lespin down by the river, the logical place to flee was higher up the High Street, into the heart of the village where he could slink away in any of a dozen directions.

Instead he dove into the familiar shelter of the stable, using the flashes of flame from the sounds of the horses to guide him.  He dove into an empty stall – ironically enough, Butterbell’s – and crouched, doing his best to keep his breathing soft.  The Earfire spell was fading, but Tyndal wasn’t concerned about that.  He was concerned because he suddenly remembered his only weapon, his mageblade, was under a bush across the street, an unfortunate tactical decision.

Wantran was certain to track him down eventually, and he really had no place to run from here.  He had fled here on instinct, more than purpose, seeking the familiar.  Never attack a wizard in his keep, was a famous old Imperial saying.  Tyndal didn’t have a keep, a house, or so much as a tent, but he knew the stables.  The smells and sounds seemed to protect and embolden him.  This
was
his keep.

He was considering the wisdom of sprinting back across the road in an effort to get to his sword when Wantran’s shadow, even more hunched over in pain, filled the doorway.

“You’re clever, lad,” he wheezed.  “You had us goin’ . . . but the game is over, now.  You are hereby taken to arrest . . . in the name . . . of the King . . .” he said as he moved slowly but steadily into the stable.  There wasn’t any fog here.  Magesight would work fine, Tyndal realized, and hiding wouldn’t be useful anymore.

He rolled to the edge of the stall and peered out at the man plodding his way down the rows, head turning and searching.  Those Censors were tough, Tyndal had to admit.  That admiration faded quickly as the seriousness of his situation prevailed. 

But then he spotted an ally.  In three more steps, Wantran would be behind Midnight, the gelding whose skittishness and fondness for kicking had made the boy respectful of him his first day here.  Two more steps, and the Censor would be in position.  He readied another cantrip, a “pinching” spell, first year apprentice level sorcery, as mighty as the fart sound glyph.

“Last opportunity to do this the easy way, Master Mage,” Wantran said.  He limped, but he held that mageblade steady, a faint glow appearing around its tip as some unknown enchantment activated.  That couldn’t be good for him.

But one more step . . .

“We have nicer quarters in Wenshar, and we have less-nice.  Your actions now will determine the nature of your lodging, master Mage,” he said, taking that faithful step.  Tyndal snapped.  The spell activated.  Midnight kicked Wantran in the side and shoulder, both hooves flying.  The Censor once again sprawled off his feet, though he had the benefit of an empty stall to land in this time.  Tyndal shook his head as he ran to snatch up the other man’s sword on his way out.  Noblemen never thought about horses, unless they were astride them, for all their glorious talk.  He deftly lifted the Censor’s heavier blade by the hilt as he vaulted over the man’s boots . . .

. . . and went sprawling himself as the sword’s hilt sent a blast of red lightning into his hand, arm, and shoulder.  He dropped the blade as he rolled across the cobbles, tripping over his own pitchfork in the process.

He should have thought of that: he’d heard of magical blades who would bite the hand of any but their owner who dared to wield them.  He vowed to remember the trick, as he lay panting for air, should he actually survive this duel.  He clutched at his hand and wrist, trying desperately to move his fingers and regain his feet.  He had done neither when next he heard Wantran’s dark baritone.

“Stop, mageling!” he commanded, hoarsely.  Tyndal couldn’t bear the thought of picking up the Censor’s blade again, but his left hand found the rough hickory handle of the pitchfork.  He grasped it wildly, tucked it under his arm and struggled to his feet.

“I said stop . . . or—“ he didn’t have to finish the threat.  Tyndal could see, to his dismay, that Wantran had discovered Ansily . . . whom Tyndal had forgotten was in the stable.

He didn’t have a weapon at her throat, but he did have his gauntlet grasping the back of her neck harshly, holding on to her like she was the crutch that kept him from falling.  “Stop this.  Now.  Or she dies.”

Tyndal straightened, the smallest bit of feeling returning to his fingers on his right hand, his left clutched around the haft of the pitchfork.  “Let her go!” he demanded, shaking the implement defiantly.  “She’s got nothing to do with this!”

“You have a choice – she dies, and then you die.  Or you lay on the ground with your hand’s spread over your head, face in the stone, and your tart can go home to her mother,” he offered. 

“I’m no tart—!” Ansily squawked as the big man’s grip tightened.  “We’re just friends—”

“Pick up your blade, then!” insisted Tyndal.  “If you’re going to kill me any way, fight me like a man!”

“I’ll beat you like a dog,” muttered the man as he pushed Ansily forward.  He stooped and grabbed the hilt of his sword, ignoring the wavering pitchfork that menaced him.  Again the man was in the right position . . . and again Tyndal attacked him unexpectedly.  He reversed the pitchfork with a twist of the wrist and wedged the tines under his arm, the worn handled pointed toward the top of the Censor’s head.

“
Shayantha!
” he whispered – the mnemonic was a Crinroc swear-word he doubted anyone south of the Penumbra would know . . . and once again Wantran was thrown back unexpectedly.  Only this time he didn’t get back up, and from the way he landed there was some doubt as to whether he’d ever move under his own power again.  The rugged hickory handle of the pitchfork was singed, but it hadn’t splintered the way his warwand had.  He spared just a moment to stare at it in gratitude.  A stableboy can always trust a pitchfork.

Tyndal had fretted for an entire day over the possible return of the Censors.  He’d had his witchstone at hand, and he knew all too well how strong the hickory handle was.  Once you learned the basics of magic it was nearly impossible not to become arcanely familiar with objects you used, even if you didn’t intend on imbuing them with magical purpose.  Enchanting the implement into a kind of wand seemed prudent, even against staying hidden.  Like horses, noblemen rarely thought about pitchforks.  And Censors likely wouldn’t be searching for an enchanted, dangerously magical pitchfork when they were looking for an experienced mage.

Ansily had been pulled partially out of the way when his wand activated, and the moment she stirred Tyndal dropped the tool and ran to her side.  She was rubbing her neck where the Censor had grasped it, and Tyndal put his hand over hers as he searched her for injury.

“Are you well?” he asked, concerned.  She nodded dumbly, her eyes wide. 

“You . . . you . . .”

“Not now,” he cautioned, his heart pounding and his eyes stealing to the still body of the Censor.  “We have to move – there’s still one of them out there!”

“I know!” she squeaked, getting to her feet as quickly as he could . . . and showing off far more leg under her skirt than she perhaps intended.  Tyndal cursed himself for thinking of pleasures at a time like this, but the kiss Ansily gave him when she did make it to her feet told him he wasn’t the only one so stirred by the excitement.  “Where to?” she asked him, her pretty eyes alight.

“Just follow me . . . and try to keep up,” he said, taking her by the hand and pulling, hard.  She followed without resistance.  He stopped just long enough to retrieve his mageblade, grateful to have at least some sort of weapon again.  The pitchfork had been a handy trick, but it was the last in his bag. 

But once he was properly armed, his confidence returned.  He was no warmage, but he knew how to stab someone in the darkness.  Lespin was somewhere down by the docks but his sound-to-flame spell was dissipating.  But so was the spell using the fog to conceal from magesight.  Tyndal allowed the last of the power to both to fail, and looked down the slope with the wizard’s perspective . . . and saw no one.

“Remember that story you told me?” he asked.  She nodded.  “We’re going to go to the docks and get to a boat.   Then I’m going to put you ashore and Lespin can chase me from here to the Mindens, and leave poor Talry behind.”

“Tyndal!  Don’t be stupid!” Ansily hissed.  “That was just a stupid story!  If we can get back to the
Four Stags
. . .”

“On foot?  He’d be on us by midnight.  And I’m not eager to go back into that stable for a while.  The river is the best way to put miles between us and trouble . . . and trouble and Talry.  The Censors won’t bother the bakers if they’re chasing me, a known threat and fugitive . . .”

“Then let’s go!” Ansily said, pulling the hood of her mantle over her head.  Tyndal was startled.  He honestly expected more of an argument.  He nodded in return, then took her hand with his left while his right brandished his un-named blade.  Bravely, foolishly, but decisively he began the descent of the slope through the thick river mists of Talry.