Magic of Thieves Page 4

  “What changed your mind about the girl?” Brig asked. “Why is she to stay?”

  Rideon glared. “Because if we attempt to remove her, she’ll only continue returning to us, thanks to your refusal to dispose of her. Also, because morale is low and the child’s spirit appeals to the men. But most of all, because I order it.”

  After this there could be no further discussion of the matter. I stayed. Although the decision came from Rideon, the other outlaws appeared generally in agreement that I was to be Brig’s responsibility. After all, it was to him I’d attached myself, so it was only natural he should have the care of me.

  During this space of time, all that had previously occurred in my life swiftly came to seem like a distant memory and, plunging into a new world, I lost sight of anything connected with the old.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Memories of my early days among the band of forest brigands are hazy. Seasons changed, the weather warmed to summer, and then winter stole over the land again. My first winter in Dimmingwood was a hard one. Food was scarce that year and I was not yet accustomed to living outdoors in such weather. Brig worried aloud over how skinny I grew and seemed to think I would die when I succumbed to my first winter chill. But soon, winter’s icy grip was lifted from the province and spring found me alive and thriving.

  I set into my new existence with enthusiasm. I loved the woods and the forest creatures, loved the scent of pine and the rustle of the wind in the treetops. This world of leaf and shadow, bramble and stream, quickly became mine. There were no other children here and only one or two women came and went around the camp, but I never felt lonely.

  Brig was my closest companion and I followed at his heels sunup to sundown, drinking in all I saw. I learned early to tell one tree from another, until I knew my way around the wood better than many of the grown men. Soon, Brig was training me to track and hunt small game.

  My skill in another area was expanding as well. Now that my magical talent had prematurely awakened, it refused to fall dormant again and made itself known in a series of unpleasant ways. My sickness that first winter was more than an ordinary chill. I was alternately hot and cold, shivering and feverish. Too weak to stand, I lay miserably on a deerskin pallet in the shelter of the cave for weeks. Weight dropped off me until I was little more than a wraith, and evil dreams plagued me in the night. Not dreams of home or of my mother, but twisted, confused nightmares I could scarcely recall upon waking. I always awoke trembling, with a premonition of doom hanging over me, as if the dreams foreshadowed terrible events to come. Occasionally, I visited a strange place while I slept, a world of paths and mists, but when I woke, I could never remember much of what I saw there.

  By the end of the first winter month, I began to improve, to Brig’s obvious relief. But I didn’t emerge from the illness unchanged. I regained my strength and my weight, but a strange new effect came about. One moment I would be stirring a pot of stew at the fire. The next, I would become abruptly aware that Brig was angry and fighting with someone, though it was happening at such a distance I couldn’t possibly see or hear anything of the disagreement. I simply felt his anger. Other times, I might be sleeping and would wake suddenly, startled by the sense of a pair of men approaching camp from the south. It usually proved to be just two of our members returning from a long hunt, but it was disturbing that I should know of their coming before they were near enough for our sentries to spot them.

  If my mother or anyone else with the magic had been present, I could have spoken to them of this. But as it was, I was surrounded by magickless and there was no one to guide me. I had come into my magic early and, doubtless, my parents had thought they had plenty of time ahead to prepare me for this. There was only one person I could go to now.

  When I revealed what I was going through to Brig, he seemed disturbed. Frightened even. He knew no way to help me with this problem—and a problem it obviously was in his mind.

  “But I’ll take care of you, Ilan,” he assured me, “and between the two of us we’ll find our way through this.”

  He made me swear I would never speak of my magical abilities to anyone else and suggested I cease using them. I told him that was impossible. The magic had come to me and though I might have given it up to please Brig if it were in my power, something told me it would never give me up.

  I didn’t understand Brig’s fear of magic. I had little knowledge of the cleansings happening throughout the province and rarely remembered the strange words of the Fist who had chased me into the woods on the night of my parents' deaths. For now, I knew only that Brig appeared anxious and disappointed with me.

  Over time, I grew accustomed to my new abilities and developed a limited understanding of what I could and couldn’t do with them. My main talent was sensing other presences around me. At odd moments I was also granted flickering glimpses of people’s emotions, which often helped me guess at their plan or intent before it became clear to others.

  In those days I spent nearly every waking moment in the company of the bald, bearded outlaw and he, as if sensing my need for the stability he offered, didn’t begrudge me his time. If for any reason he was unavailable, Dradac would step into his place as my caretaker.

  I was growing and quickly learning to care for myself. As the youngest member of the outlaw band, I often fell into the role of camp drudge, but I considered hauling water, scrubbing crockery, and running messages a small price to pay for the excitement and adventure of living among the brigands. I was a pet to a handful of the men like Brig, who had once had children or younger siblings. Even the sterner outlaws were won over by my admiration and fascination with everything they did. They regaled me with exaggerated tales, saved choice bits of food for me, and would bring me little trinkets when they returned from their forays.

  And so time ran on, the days so full from dawn to dusk that the passing years felt like moments. I could no longer recall vividly the faces of my parents, except in the rare nightmare, and on the occasions when I thought of the little farm where I’d once lived, my memories were hazy, less real than any dream.

  I still possessed my mother’s brooch. Brig had found it on me at some time or other and had thoughtfully stored it away until I was old enough to have it. The circumstances surrounding that trinket were still confused in my mind, but I always regarded it with a touch of reverence. It was a treasure from a past I only dimly recalled, to be pulled out occasionally and wondered at, then tucked safely away again. Once, I had examined it closely enough to find it had tiny writing engraved across the back. But I could neither write nor read and knew no one who could, so the meaning of the letters on the brooch remained a mystery.

  My thirteenth winter saw my body changing. I was taller now and my tunics grew tight over my breasts, which had begun to swell alarmingly. I knew this was natural at my age but was uncomfortable with the change and longed for everything to go back to the way it had been last year. Occasionally, I would steal peeks at myself in the now battered copper platter Rideon still used as a shaving mirror, but these glimpses always ended in disappointment. I don’t know what I hoped to see, but what I found was a plain, skinny girl, whose legs looked too long for her body. My pale face was narrow, my nose too long and sharp for beauty. My pointed ears stuck out unattractively from my head. But at least no one ever commented on the silvery hair or pale skin I had inherited from my mother’s people. Skeltai ancestry was common this close to the Provincial border and wasn’t necessarily accompanied by the gift of magic. Besides, our band already had a giant in our midst and a man who was rumored to be half-goblin, so I fit into the menagerie surprisingly well.

  That winter stretched long and bitter and when it released the land from its icy grip and the warmth of spring stole into the air, our camp reawakened in a fresh bustle of activity. Travelers and merchant caravans were on the move again and the brigands were eager to plunder the goods and coin they had seen little of during the frozen season.

  Our band had swolle
n in size and there were now several dozen of us divided over two camps, Red Rock cave and Molehill. Our numbers shifted constantly as Rideon was forever sending groups on forays to the edges of Dimmingwood. Occasionally they didn’t return, but there were always more to fill their places. The band of Rideon the Red Hand had established a name and we had a constant flow of thieves eager to join our ranks.

  I asked Dradac one day, “Why do people flock to Rideon? He certainly bears no affection for them. He would allow any of us to die without hesitation if it were profitable for him.”

  Dradac didn’t look up from the chunk of wood he whittled. “Deep thoughts for such a sunny day, little hound,” he answered. “In my experience, outlaws are less interested in being valued than in being led well. Rideon’s sharp wits are all that stand between us and the hangman’s noose, and the rest of the band know it. Besides, even thieves and killers like a hero, and it takes something powerful to inspire us in these plague-cursed times.”

  “Plague’s long over,” I murmured absently.

  “Aye, I know that. But its shadow hangs on. You can see it in the eyes of the man who lost all his sons in that single plague year, and it left its mark in the new graves spread across the province. I still smell the fear on the wind, mingled with the smoke from the fires…”

  His voice trailed off, but I knew what he was thinking. The occasional accused sorcerer was still found once in awhile and put to the penalty of the law. They burned them these days. No one was going to risk another plague. I didn’t know what Dradac’s views on magic were and I wasn’t about to ask him, but I was ever mindful of Brig’s advice to keep my ability to myself.

  I looked out over the spreading treetops below. Perched high in the thick boughs of a tree a few miles beyond the perimeter of Red Rock, we were on morning watch. Or rather, Dradac was on watch and I sat with him, pretending the task was mine too.

  When a shrill birdcall split the air I was so lost in my thoughts that I started and nearly fell from my precarious perch. The bad imitation of a crested redbird was a familiar signal, one that meant trespassers were approaching the perimeters of the camp.

  Dradac winced. “That’s Seirdric. I’d know that strangled warble anywhere. Come on.”

  “What do you think it is?” I demanded, scrambling down the tree after him and following as he slipped into the underbrush.

  “Probably only innocent travelers blundering through the forest. Looks like you’ll have an opportunity to see a bit of action today.”

  I kept my thoughts to myself, reluctant to remind him Brig preferred to keep me far away from “action.” Torn between eagerness and unease at witnessing whatever was to come, my nerves fluttered skittishly. But excitement won out. I had waited a long time to be considered old enough for this sort of thing. I wondered if Dradac would kill anyone. Then I wondered if I might kill anyone. I had a sturdy staff with me just in case.

  Following our man’s call, Dradac moved swiftly and silently through the forest so that I had difficulty keeping pace with him. It was easy to locate our quarry as we drew near. They made a great deal of noise, crashing clumsily through the underbrush and conversing in loud, angry tones. We heard them long before we caught sight of them.

  “You had better know what you’re about, you impudent scoundrel. I’ve paid dear coin for safe escort to the abbey and if I find you’ve gone and lost us in this gloomy wood—”

  “You’ll stutter, puff up your fat jowls, and do nothing at all. You cannot frighten me, priest, so save your breath and your threats for someone else.”

  “Why y-you mother-forsaken black heart! How d-d-dare you?” In his indignation, the priest was so overcome by his impediment he had difficulty spitting out the words.

  His companion ignored his complaint. “I’ve told you before, Honored One, you’ve nothing to fear. I know this wood like the back of my hand. It’s but a shorter path I lead you on.”

  “I should have been content to r-remain on the road,” the priest replied sullenly. “But now that it’s too late to turn back, at least lead us on with a little more speed. I’d as soon be out of this forest by nightfall. They say these woods are crawling with murderous brigands.”

  He paused to call over his shoulder to a third companion. “You, boy! Have a care with my belongings. That’s not a sack of potatoes you’re carrying.”

  Dradac and I crept closer until we had a full view of the trespassers. There were three of them. A large, balding fellow led the way, followed by a chubby, elderly man dressed in the traditional gray robes of an Honored One, a priest of the Light. Trailing these two was a slender boy of about my age, also wearing priestly robes and carrying a heavy pack across his shoulders.

  The path they followed would soon lead the travelers straight past us. Dradac and I had dropped to our bellies, concealing ourselves in a tall patch of waving toadsbreath. A glance at the trees to our right revealed two of our men, Illsman and Nib, concealed in the branches of a pair of thick elder trees. To our left, the swaying of a low stand of shrubbery gave away Seirdric’s position.

  Imitating Dradac, I kept my head low as we crouched in the greenery, and as we waited for the approaching strangers, I used the time to size up the three unlikely traveling companions. The lead man had the appearance of a woodsman by his deer-hide boots, the wolf skin thrown over his tunic, and the long hunting knife at his belt. He was older, balding, and his wide belly was more gut than muscle.

  I moved my attention to the elderly priest. Despite his age, the Honored One was neither thin nor frail, but bore a round, fleshy frame. Trotting along in the woodsman’s wake, he puffed continually, his round cheeks pink with the exertion of moving his bulk to keep stride. Occasionally, he turned and snapped an order at the skinny boy trailing him and the unfortunate boy would labor to pick up his pace.

  The youth was of slim build with little muscle and it was obvious the burden he carried was too great for his size. But his wide jaw was set in an appearance of determination and despite his obvious weariness, there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes, as if he were so eager to reach his destination he didn’t care what conditions he was forced to endure along the way. He chewed his lower lip as he stumbled on, all but tripping over the hem of his ill-fitting robes. His dark hair was worn in a similar fashion to that of the old Honored, cropped so closely his pale scalp showed. His eyes, squinted against the beads of sweat trailing from his forehead, caught my attention. They were widely spaced and an odd, deep-violet hue.

  The three strangers were passing just in front of us when Dradac suddenly revealed our presence. Rising from our hiding place, he called, “Hold, friends. We mean you no harm.”

  The woodsman in the lead whipped around, startled. His eyes widened at the sight of us and his hands immediately came up to fumble for something over his shoulder.

  Dradac must have noticed the motion, for he called, “You have nothing to fear from us, so long as you draw no—”

  He was cut off abruptly, for the woodsman had found what he sought. In a sudden motion, he pulled free the weapon, raising and loosing it before anyone could react. Instinctively, I ducked, but I was not his target. I saw Dradac’s body jerk awkwardly and then he swayed sharply to one side, a stunned expression on his face. A red stain bloomed across his tunic, where a crossbow bolt lodged deeply into his left shoulder. I stared in horror from the giant to the small crossbow the stranger now held leveled at me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I couldn’t have moved just then even had I known what action to take. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. With enraged shouts, the other outlaws leapt from their hiding places and felled the woodsman before he could prepare another bolt. My view was momentarily blocked as they wrestled him to the ground. There followed a short frenzy of motion, a series of strangled screams, and when next I got a look at our enemy, he lay still upon his back. I stared stupidly at the blood-soaked tunic clinging wetly to his chest. Our own men had as much blood spattered on their clothes and hands,
but none appeared to be theirs.

  “There’s one will never trouble us again,” Illsman said, grimly swiping a speck of blood off his chin.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes from the lifeless corpse lying in the grass at the outlaw’s feet. The world seemed to be spinning around me. I was vaguely aware of frantic muttering sounds in the background—the terrified priest chanting a desperate prayer. I couldn’t focus on his words, but dropped to my knees and doubled over. My stomach heaved and then I was vomiting my breakfast onto the ground and all over my boots. I wretched until my belly was empty, then as I drew in one deep breath after another, the dizziness subsided and I became aware again of the world around me.

  I saw that Dradac had collapsed to his knees, face drained pale and forehead resting against a tree. Nearby, Illsman was stripping the woodsman’s corpse of weapons and anything of value. Meanwhile, Seirdric and Nib were advancing, blades drawn, on the two remaining strangers. The plump priest stood immobile, eyes squinted tightly closed and face turned heavenward, his lips moving in silent prayer. He made no move to flee or to defend himself as the brigands closed in. The same could not be said of his young companion.

  “Run, Honored One. I’ll defend you!” the boy cried, leaping boldly forward to shield his master. With determined force, he struck out with the only weapon he had, his travelers pack. Nib was caught unprepared as the heavy pack slammed into him and knocked him from his feet. Seirdric was not so easily felled. Before the boy could gather his strength, the outlaw slashed a knife down the lad’s skinny ribs.

  Yowling in pain, the boy dropped his pack and collapsed heavily to the ground. There, he curled into a tight ball, clutching his wounded side. A steady stream of blood appeared from beneath his hands. Behind him, the priest found the courage to turn and flee toward the near trees. Illsman snatched up the dead woodsman’s crossbow and steadied it against his shoulder, aiming at the priest’s retreating back, but no bolt was ever loosed.