The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (7 page)

“Good,” Angus said. “Then you can find your way back to it.”

Angus picked up the thief’s knife—a short, thin blade more
suitable for puncture wounds than slashing ones—and walked over to the door. He
listened carefully for a few moments before lifting the latch and taking a
quick look outside. No one was lurking in the hall so he opened the door all
the way and moved back to the center of the room.

“Lower your arms and take three steps forward,” he told the
thief, “then turn left.” When the thief had done so, Angus moved in behind him
and lowered his voice. “Spread the word,” he said. “I am to be left alone. If
not,” he moved the Lamplight nearer to the thief’s eyes and squeezed it until
it was an intense, red marble that could be felt and seen through his closed
eyelids. The thief winced and pressed his head back against Angus’s shoulder
and chin. Angus wrapped his hand around the Lamplight, its glow seeping through
his flesh to outline the bones of his fingers. He gave the thief a little
shove, and Giorge lost his balance, plunging forward until he struck the wall
of the hallway across from the door. Angus walked calmly forward, tossed the
knife at the thief’s feet, and quietly closed and latched the door.

He expanded the Lamplight spell until it cast a comfortable
amount of light and guided it back to the mattress. He lay down, the warm
Lamplight near his feet, and went to sleep, leaving only a small part of his
mind alert to potential dangers. It was only when he reached that curious state
when wakefulness and dreamland merge together that a tiny part of his mind
began to wonder.
Why did I come to Fenbrooke’s Inn? When did I learn of it?
Why was it so easy to identify the thieves? And the guardsmen? They almost
seemed to know me? Have I been to Wyrmwood before? When? Why?

Before he could answer any of the questions, the dream
began.

He was soaring high above rolling hills, his wings two
sails whipping madly about in the wind, his claws cradled around two tasty
little morsels.

He looked down at the half-familiar, almost identical
slumped forms hanging from his gigantic, falcon-shaped claws.

He licked his lips as he studied them, wondering which
one he would devour first
….

11

Some time before dawn, Angus left Fenbrooke’s Inn and headed
for the south road. At the gate to the second wall, the guard made no effort to
prevent him from leaving, and there was no line waiting to come in. Angus
stepped through the gate and paused next to the guard. He turned and said,
“Good morning.” In the dim light of the lamps, he noted the guard’s droopy
eyes, his lethargic posture, and the rumpled hair. Two other guards leaned
against the wall not far away.

The guard yawned, nodded, and waved him on.

Angus lingered and asked, “Would you happen to know how far
it is to Hellsbreath?”

The guard sighed, stretched, shook himself a bit, and said,
“Ten days by foot, if you don’t take any shortcuts.”

“Shortcuts?”

The guard scowled, yawned again, and asked, “First time
south?”

Angus nodded.

He sighed. “Well, the road’s built for caravans.”

“Yes?” Angus asked, wondering what he meant.

“It’s nice and wide and hugs the valleys and loops around
the hills. It makes it easier for the pack animals than going up over the
hills. Carts, too. But it makes for a lot longer trip. If you’re in a hurry,
you can climb over the hills, instead of following the road around them.”

“Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

The guard shrugged. “The patrols don’t go there,” he said.
“They keep pretty much to the road. But a lot of people do it. There are
tracks.”

“How much time do the shortcuts save?”

The guard sighed, “Maybe a couple of days,” he said. “If you
get there.”

“How many don’t get there?”

The guard shrugged. “No way to tell,” he said. “The Tween
eats ’em up.”

“The Tween?” Angus asked, a bit alarmed.

“Look,” the guard grumbled. “I’m going off shift in a few
minutes. Can’t you wait and pester Dillard?”

Angus half-smiled. “Well,” Angus began. “It’s just that I’ve
never heard of The Tween.”

The guard shrugged. “Stick to the road, then. It’s safer.
There’s places to camp. There’s patrols. And the things in The Tween stay away
from it.”

“The Tween is a place, then? Not a thing?”

The guard sighed and nodded.

“Can you show me where it is on my map?” Angus asked.

“No,” the guard snapped, turning away and hurriedly
gesturing to the other two guards. “Snap to it!” he said. “Dillard’s coming.”

The two guards moved quickly, one to either side of the
gate, and stood straight, their hands on the hilts of their short swords.

“Shift change,” the guard said to Angus. “On your way now.”

“But—”

“Go!” the guard ordered. “Day shift doesn’t have time to
chatter.” He paused a moment, then added, “Dillard is not known for his
patience.”

Angus lingered for a long moment before continuing south. As
he went through the half-dark streets of the worker’s ring of the town, he
wondered why Voltari had left The Tween off his map. It sounded dangerous, and
he didn’t think Voltari would have put him in danger without reason. But there
was the road, and he could stick to it—at least long enough to find out about
The Tween from fellow travelers….

12

Two days later, the road turned sharply southwest and headed
straight for the heart of the belching volcanoes. He was still in the dark
about The Tween. He had met plenty of travelers on their way to Wyrmwood, but
they had simply greeted him and hurried on. The few who came up from behind him
were on horses, and they passed him without pausing longer than to acknowledge
his presence—if that.

He saw the shortcuts—hard-packed paths that zig-zagged up
the hillsides—and thought about taking them, but he wasn’t in a hurry. No sense
taking risks. But they were tempting, narrow gaps carved between the thickets,
through the grass, and around the occasional rocky outcropping. Most were steep
but passable, judging by how much traffic they had had over the years, and he
wondered what the danger could be. Whatever it was, a lot of travelers were
willing to take it—at least near Wyrmwood. He’d have to wait to see what
happened when he got further away from the thriving town.

The road was wide; it could easily allow ten horses to stand
abreast in most places. It wound around the hills and kept close to the valley
floor, where the slope was slight, making for easy walking. The cobblestones
alerted him to travelers on horseback; the clatter of horseshoes hammering
against them rang out into the valleys as they passed. At regular intervals,
the underbrush and trees next to a stream had been cleared away, and high poles
stuck up from the ground like faceless totems. The caravan camp sites the guard
had mentioned, by the look of them; there were places to tie up hundreds of
horses and ample water. But what were the poles for? Fifty feet high with
notches in them for easy climbing. He climbed one, both out of curiosity and to
look at the terrain, and there was a large ring and pulley at the top. By the
time he was on the ground again, he still didn’t know the answer; it was just
one more question to ask, once he found a traveler willing to talk with him.

There were bridges over everything—stream, river, ravine, it
didn’t matter; there was a bridge. The base, pillars, and span were carved from
polished gray-black granite, but the bed of the bridge continued to alternate
between gray-green and reddish-brown cobblestones. All of them were touched by
earth magic, the strands knotted gracefully around them, holding the stone of
the bridge firmly together. He spent half an afternoon studying one of them,
walking over it, going under it, looking at how the knots were connected, how
they worked together to reinforce the structure of the bridge, and how the
threads were held in place against their will. But all he saw was the surface
of the bridge, and it was clear to him that the magic had been knitted together
while the bridge had been built, woven in-between and around the slabs of
granite, with the threads locked in place inside the bridge. He tried to focus
on the individual layers of the ridiculously complex spell, but it was too
dizzying and he finally had to give up. He rested for several minutes
afterward, and then continued on.

Near the end of the second day, the terrain changed rapidly
from low, rolling, thicket-encrusted hills to steep, rocky foothills riddled
with outcroppings and jagged, bare rocks jutting out. There were still
shortcuts, but they were quite steep and clearly used much less frequently than
the ones near Wyrmwood; it would take a sure foot to climb them, and many of
the town-dwellers would pass on them. Perhaps that was the risk? Treacherous
footing? In places, the road was carved into the rock of the hillside to widen
it, and near one of these places, a faint, barely noticeable, rhythmic echo
crept around it. It wasn’t the steady, methodical, clattering rhythm of a
horse’s hooves; the gap between the sounds was different. A loud clank quickly
followed by a muffled clank, and then a noticeable pause before it was
repeated. Another pause followed, and it happened again.

What is that?
Angus wondered, frowning.
It sounds
metallic.
He slowed his pace and moved as far as he dared to the edge of
the road, near the now-steepening drop to the valley floor. The sounds grew
louder as he approached—
definitely metal striking metal
—and he brought
the magical energy around him nearer to the surface of his consciousness. It
was heavy-laden with earth magic, but there were still plenty of strands of
flame available.

He edged around the corner and the sounds grew louder. They
were now accompanied by occasional muffled voices, and then he saw why:
Rockfall. A massive granite boulder had tumbled down the hill and come to a rest
in the middle of the road. A group of workmen were chipping away at it with
chisels and mallets. As he neared, he noticed a growing pile of manageable
stone slabs stacked next to the dwindling boulder. Each slab looked to be about
the same size and color as the cobblestones: two foot gray-green squares one
foot deep.

Angus approached the construction crew cautiously but not
with fear; they were unlikely to be a threat. Still….

Most of the workmen ignored him and kept chipping away at
the stone. They seemed to be grouped in three, one holding the chisel and
turning it, and the other two alternating hitting it with a mallet. The granite
was hard, resistant, and tiny puffs of rock dust and rock chips fluttered up
with each new strike a mallet made. When the man orchestrating the activity saw
Angus, he stared for a few seconds and then stepped onto the scaffold that had
been assembled next to the stone. He bounced down quickly and jogged up to
Angus.

“Greetings, Fair Wizard,” he said, as if it were Angus’s
name. “A fine evening will soon be upon us, eh?”

“Indeed,” Angus said, watching the workmen. “A most pleasant
one.”

The man fell in at a deferential distance beside Angus and
absently brushed stone dust from his clothes. He walked with him for a few
paces before asking, “Have you a place to stay the night?”

“I had thought to make the next village,” Angus said,
raising his voice a bit to combat the clatter. “Or inn. They seem to be spaced
most reasonably on this road.”

“Yes, yes,” the man agreed. “Near Wyrmwood, but not here.”
He hesitated, leaned in conspiratorially, glanced around, and said, “We’re too
close to The Tween.”

The Tween. What is it? Why does it worry him so?
“A
caravan stop, then,” Angus said, slowing to a stop near the boulder and
watching the men working. There were ten of them, three groups cutting the
stone and a boy moving among them with a large jug of water. He occasionally
splashed a little water on the groove being chiseled or poured some in a
workman’s mouth.

“There’s them,” the man agreed, stopping. “But no tents up
yet.” He gestured at a large tent anchored to the cobblestones and said,
“That’s the last shelter you’ll find until a day from Hellsbreath.”

“What is this Tween I’ve been hearing about?” Angus asked.

“Ah,” the man said, shaking his head. “It’s a bad place.
King Tyr claims it for his kingdom but doesn’t patrol it. The mountain dwarves
repel any attempt he makes to settle it.
They
don’t like encroachment in
their
territory, and they only barely tolerate the road. They wouldn’t
even do that if they didn’t trade with Tyr. That and Hellsbreath is too
strongly defended to get rid of Tyr’s influence altogether without open war,
and they don’t want that any more than King Tyr does. Still, every now and then
they remind us they are there.” He gestured at the rock.

“You think they did that?” Angus asked, looking at him for
the first time. The man’s eyes were shrewd little hazel orbs that concealed a
keen mind. His skin was tanned and wind-burned; and his hair was a tangled mass
of oily, dark brown curls lined with streaks of gray. On top of all of it was a
light sprinkling of granite dust.

The man shrugged, “Not this one,” he said, smiling. He only
had teeth on the left side, and his smile looked like a mountain dwarf had
carved a cave into his mouth. “There’s no sign of it being undercut, and them
dwarves tend to keep deeper in The Tween. Wyrmwood sends patrols this far
south—and a few hills further— and Hellsbreath patrols the rest of the road.”

“I see,” Angus said, a bit cowed by the man’s size. He was
half a foot taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds, all muscle. He turned
back to the road and started walking again.

The man fell in stride beside him again, and they walked in
silence until they were almost past the tent. “If I might make a request, Fair
Wizard?” the man finally said.

Angus nodded curtly without turning or slowing.

“Well,” the man hedged. “I would be most grateful if you
joined us for the evening meal and, if it be to your liking, stay the night.”

Angus stopped, turned, and tilted his head. “For what
purpose?” he asked. “It will be a clear night with a full moon, and I’m far
from tired.”

The workman rubbed his chest, grinding the dusting of rock
into his tunic. “Well,” he hedged, “I—that is, we would be glad for your
presence, Fair Wizard. The Tween,” he looked back at the boulder, the men, and
the tent. When he turned back, he shook his head and shrugged. “There’s things
in The Tween,” he finished. “Things that come at night. They don’t come this
far often, but it isn’t unheard of.”

Angus half-smiled. “Surely you are prepared for them.”

The workman nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “But a wizard…” He
paused, shrugged again, and added, “It’s the men, see. They would sleep more
easily if they knew your magic was with them.”

Angus sighed. Perhaps he would be better off not wearing the
robe? But then, he was certain at least one or two of his encounters would have
gone badly if he hadn’t been wearing it. There was something mysterious about
wizards; they could see things others couldn’t, and draw upon powers that were
a complete mystery to the rest of humanity. But for those who could see the
magical strands, who could manipulate them, wizards were no different than the
workmen chipping away at the rocks: craftsmen plying a skill. It just happened
that the skills they plied could be far more powerful than a mallet and chisel.

“A meal would be most welcome,” Angus said, “but I will stay
the night only on two conditions.”

The workman grinned and looked as if he wanted to clamp onto
Angus’s shoulder with his huge hand. He stopped himself, and asked, “What might
they be, Fair Wizard?”

Angus smiled. “First, call me Angus,” he said.

The workman nodded. “Angus it is, then,” he said. “The
second?”

“Tell me more about this Tween. It is new to me, and I would
be grateful for any information you have on it.”

His grin broadened and the cave in his mouth deepened as he
gestured to the tent and said, “Done!” Then he turned to his crew and shouted,
“Stow the gear and clean up!”

“What shall I call you?” Angus asked as the workers began to
tie down their pulleys and gather up their equipment.

“Billigan,” he said, smiling.

“That’s an unusual name,” Angus asked.

Billigan nodded. “The Tween is an unusual place,” he said.

“Oh?” Angus asked. “Were you born there?”

Billigan nodded again, then hurried away to supervise the
other workers as they prepared for the evening.

Angus continued to watch for a minute, and then turned away
from the worksite to examine the worker’s camp. It was a fairly basic temporary
encampment a short distance south of the boulder, far enough away to avoid the
rock dust and chips but close enough to be useful. It consisted mainly of a
large tent anchored to the cobblestones of the road on one side and to the hillside
on the other. There were no horses in sight, nor could he hear any, but here
could be some behind or inside the tent; it was large enough to house a couple
dozen men.

The workmen gathered together on the road and made their way
noisily toward the tent, laughing and joking with each other. Billigan hurried
up, and they quieted somewhat as he pointed at Angus. Then they resumed their
good humor with an even more strident tone.
What do they expect to happen?
Angus wondered, not sure what he could do if something did happen. The best
spells take time to weave….

“Angus!” Billigan shouted, gesturing for him to join them on
their way to the tent. “These are my men,” he continued, pointed to each one
and rattling off a list of names that Angus promptly forgot. He greeted them as
a group, and they moved into the tent. He followed after them, Billigan at his
side.

“We don’t have much,” Billigan said. “But you’re welcome to
share in it.”

“Thank you,” Angus said. “I require very little, other than
information.”

“Of course!” Billigan said, holding the tent flap open until
Angus moved past him.

The tent was lit by a pair of lanterns hung on the tent
poles, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
The workers moved quickly to the left, where the boy with the water jug was
standing next to a barrel of water. They stripped off their tunics and
trousers, throwing them into a pile next to the boy or, laughingly, onto him.
He waited until the last one had finished, then picked up the first tunic. He
shook it vigorously, sending out a small cloud of sweat-drenched rock chips and
dust, and then tossed it in a new pile next to the barrel. He picked up a
second one and did the same thing.

The workers left him and the settling cloud behind them and
walked across the tent to gather around an overturned barrel with a stack of
water basins and a cluster of ewers on it. Next to it was a second barrel of
water, and they began washing off the worst of the grit still clinging to their
near-naked flesh.

“If you need washing,” Billigan said. “You’ll have to wait
for them to finish.”

Angus turned toward Billigan and nodded. “They need bathing
more than I do.”