Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two (65 page)

The sky remained clear, the stone flew
unerringly from his hand to smash into the front of the
stalker.

As the stalker fell, he released the
breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Miko glanced to him. “No
shimmering.”

“Yeah. I noticed that.”

“Why not?”

James shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. But
let’s just be happy it didn’t.”

One by one, stones flew across the
desert to take out the remaining stalkers. Each time James braced
for a repeat of the severe tingling he experienced before only to
not feel even the slightest tingling sensation.

Miko dropped the shield once the area
was clear. “There are bound to be more out there. We need to find a
patch of vines.”

“Doubt if we’ll find one before
nightfall.”

James walked to the edge of the crater
and gazed down to the bottom. “Wow.”

“If that had been any more powerful we
would have been caught in it.”

Nodding, James reached down to pick up
a stone. He gazed at it while it rested on his palm.

“What are you thinking?”

“The sky reacted when I caused the
ground to erupt.” James held the stone between his thumb and
forefinger and held it up, “Yet it did nothing when I threw the
stones.”

“I noticed that too,” Miko replied.
“Why?”

The stone failed to provide any
insight. James shrugged and tossed it back to the ground. “Darned
if I know.” He looked southward and saw a few stalker silhouettes
far off in the distance. “We better hurry if we want to reach a
vine patch before dark.”

As he skirted the crater and headed
due south, he considered conducting a test to see if he could
figure out the nature of the phenomenon in the sky. Or at the very
least, why it reacted when he did one thing but not another. If not
for the severity of the effect experienced earlier, he may have
done so, but for now, it was best just to put miles behind them and
find someplace safe to spend the night.

Travelers had grown sparse the last
few hours. He’d overtaken a ten-wagon caravan miles ago and
recently passed a lone rider headed north. Now, he had the road to
himself. The sun hung low in the sky and Potbelly figured he had
less than an hour to the inn.

Scar had showed no improvement when he
stopped earlier to dribble water into his friend’s mouth. Food was
out of the question, but if he kept Scar’s mouth moist, at least it
should stave off the worst effects of dehydration.

He looked eastward across the desert
and saw the rider. For the last hour the rider had appeared at
regular intervals; always paralleling the road, and always just a
little bit behind. When the rider had first appeared, another had
been with him. The second rider hadn’t been seen for some
time.

Potbelly figured them for bandits,
most likely the other rider had gone for the rest of their men or
to set up an ambush. He hoped he was wrong, but doubted it. Why
else would the two riders separate and the remaining rider pace
them just out of visual range? Bandits were the only conclusion
that made sense.

Under normal circumstances he would
relish the diversion a fight. But with Scar comatose, the wisest
course of action might be to avoid combat. So he kept an eye out
both on the road ahead and toward the rider in the distance. When a
half hour later more riders appeared on the road ahead and the one
pacing him altered course to intersect the road, he knew trouble
was on the way.

He reached into a small pouch attached
to his saddle and produced three small tubes. From another he
pulled forth a vial and a small wooden box. Working quickly, he
slid open the box and took out three of the small darts. Then
popping open the vial, he dipped each in turn into the liquid
contained within. Once suitably coated, he slipped each into one of
the three tubes. The tubes he slid into the trio of sheaths sewn
into his right sleeve. Then he returned the vial and box to their
pouch.

By the time the tubes were in place,
the rider in the desert had broken into a gallop and had gained the
road some fifty feet behind him. Those riders ahead continued at a
measured pace.

Next he produced a white handkerchief.
Then with a slice of his knife, opened a shallow, two-inch incision
along the back of his right hand. As the blood welled forth,
Potbelly took the handkerchief and dabbed the blood, ensuring to
stain several sections of the white cloth. Next, he applied some of
the blood to the corners of his mouth.

The riders had drawn close by the time
he wrapped the cloth around his right hand. He held the cloth to
his mouth and coughed.

Five men rode toward him with another
coming up on his backside. Two of the five held crossbows; they
held back a bit while the other three rode forward. The rider at
the fore was young, couldn’t have seen more than twenty-five
summers. Despite his age, he seemed to be the leader of the group.
He rode forward and held up his hand.

Potbelly came to a halt as the two
crossbows rose to level their bolts at him. He coughed again as the
leader spoke in the Empire’s tongue. At the end of his speech,
Potbelly coughed for an extended time into his
handkerchief.

The leader gazed at him a moment, then
took in Scar, the horses and the numerous bags they had. It was
clear what he had in mind.

“Don’t come any closer,” Potbelly
said, “we have been cursed.”

Two of the leader’s men’s faces turned
pale at that; the leader merely frowned.

Potbelly coughed again and with the
handkerchief shielding what he did, pulled one of the tubes from
out of his sleeve and cupped it in his palm.

“Cursed?” the leader asked.

Potbelly nodded. “A creature from the
Waste attacked our company three nights ago. Wiped out all but me
and my friend.”

Beneath the handkerchief, he held the
tube between his thumb and two fingers. Coughing again, he brought
the handkerchief to his mouth as if to deal with blood produced by
his cough. While in fact, he brought the end of the tube to his
mouth, aimed it at one crossbowman and blew. A second later, the
crossbowman brushed at his neck as if swatting at a bug.

The leader eyed Scar. “What’s wrong
with him?”

“I don’t know. It came upon him night
before last.”

Slipping the spent tube back into its
sheath, Potbelly pulled forth another. He could see the riders
behind the leader looking uneasy at the motionless Scar and at the
blood-soaked handkerchief he wielded.

“And yourself?”

Coughing, Potbelly held the
handkerchief before his mouth as he readied the second tube. “This
morning when I awoke, I could feel something eating away at my
innards.” He held forth the blood-soaked handkerchief. “Then not an
hour ago, this.”

Feigning another coughing spell, he
aimed and blew toward the second crossbowman. Like the first, this
one too brushed away the poisoned dart as if it were a biting
insect. He flicked his gaze to the first and saw how the crossbow
was no longer held at the ready. Rather, it drooped a bit as had
the man’s eyes.

Potbelly turned his gaze to the
leader. “We need a healer,” he said with some urgency. “If we don’t
reach a temple soon, I fear we will not last much longer.” Snaking
the second tube back into its sheath, he pulled forth the
third.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the
rider that had come up behind him edge around to his right.
Coughing again, he brought the tube up to his lips and blew. The
rider swatted the dart away. Wiping away the “blood,” Potbelly
turned to the leader.

“Can you help us?”

For a moment, silence hung between
them, then it was shattered by the clatter of a crossbow hitting
the ground. All eyes turned to the first crossbowman who lay
slumped forward in his saddle. Then he tilted to the side and fell
from his horse.

Cries went up from the leader’s men.
He barked an order and though they settled down, there was a marked
increase in the distance between Potbelly and themselves. The
leader turned to the rider on his right, spoke in the Empire’s
tongue and pointed to the fallen crossbowman. The rider shook his
head and backed his horse a few paces further away from his fallen
comrade.

“Cursed!” Potbelly wailed. Waving the
bloody handkerchief and coughing hard, he nudged his horse forward.
“Help us!”

When the second crossbowman finally
succumbed to the poisonous dart and fell from his saddle, the rider
that had backed his horse away, cried out, turned and fled. The
leader shouted but the rider paid no heed.

The last rider, fear wild in his eyes,
pointed to the third man Potbelly had hit with a dart.

Sitting motionless in the saddle, the
poisoned rider’s eyes were half-closed. His horse took a nervous
step and the rider’s head lolled backward before he toppled to the
ground.

That was enough for the leader’s final
man. Turning, he fled.

The leader shouted at his man as the
rider raced off, but to no avail. He returned his gaze to Potbelly
who grinned.

Stuffing his handkerchief into his
pocket, he reached behind his saddle and untied the rope leading
Scar’s horse; then rested his hand on his sword hilt.

“Superstitious lot,” Potbelly
chuckled, “aren’t they?”

Rage filled his face as the leader
drew his sword.

Potbelly’s knife and long sword were
in his hand a split-second later.

Giving out with an inarticulate cry,
the leader dug his heels into his horse’s sides and bolted
forward.

Potbelly laughed and did the
same.

As the leader hacked downward with his
sword, Potbelly leaned to the side allowing the blade to slice
through empty air. Pulling back on the reins, Potbelly brought his
horse to a halt and turned.

The leader did the same.

Moving forward at a more measured
pace, the two combatants eyed each other. The leader was again the
one to attack first.

Potbelly knocked the blade aside with
his knife then followed through with his long sword, opening a
shallow wound along the leader’s side.

Bringing his sword back, the leader
aimed for a headshot only to have his blade caught between the
cross guard and blade of Potbelly’s knife. Before he could remove
it, Potbelly’s long sword struck his weapon near the hilt and
knocked the blade from his hand. A moment later he felt the point
of the long sword pressed against his sternum.

“If I thought I’d be shed of you,”
Potbelly said, “I’d let you live.”

Thrusting hard, the blade parted flesh
and slid between two ribs on its way to the heart. As the leader
fell backward, he added, “But I don’t think I would.”

Thrashing, the bandit hit the ground
and after a few seconds grew still.

Potbelly glanced up and down the road
to see if any travelers were in the area. Not seeing any, he
dismounted and went to ensure that the leader was in fact dead.
Vacant eyes, lack of motion and goodly sized pool of blood said it
all. He then went to the three men struck by the darts and made
sure they would not trouble the world again.

Pausing by Scar, he looked to his
friend. “Glad we spent all those hours practicing with the tubes.
Never imagined we’d ever actually use them on anyone beside
mages.”

Scar gazed forward without giving any
indication he heard.

“Give me a moment to gather their
horses and crossbows and we’ll be on the way.”

Ten minutes later there were four more
horses secured in line behind theirs, minus their saddles. One was
burdened with several blanket-wrapped bundles, containing items
taken from the deceased; including the two crossbows and the
bandits’ store of bolts.

He left the bodies where they lay,
mounted his horse and continued toward the inn.

The night was thick when four riders
entered the small cluster of buildings bordering the eastern side
of the road. In the dim light they made out little more than an
inn, a stable and a few outlying shadows. Two caravans camped on
the other side of the road, their campfires illuminated more than
three dozen wagons between them and a score of men.

“Think they stopped here?”

The lead rider turned to the other.
“Possibly. The caravan master did say he directed them
here.”

“Father Vickor?”

“Just Vickor, Kip,” the priest
admonished quietly. “We must remain discreet.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a moment, the priest asked,
“What is it?”

“What do we do if they aren’t
here?”

Tinok turned to the young priest,
“Find them of course.”

Kip saw Father Vickor nod agreement in
the dim light cast by the inn.

“If the caravan master was correct,
then one of them is in a bad way.”