Dragon's Teeth Page 10

  Trebenth whistled through his teeth. “A black adept in the making, eh? No wonder they’re sending you.”

  Martis sighed. “Just when I’d begun to think the Guild would never set me to anything but teaching again. But that’s not what’s troubling me, old friend. I knew him—a long and close association. He was one of my best students.”

  Trebenth winced. To set Martis out after one of her old students was a cruel thing to do. The powers manipulated by mages gifted them with much that lesser folk could envy—but those powers took as well as gave. Use of magic for any length of time rendered the user sterile. In many ways Martis’ students took the place of the children she’d never have.

  They often took the place of friends, too. She’d served the Guild since she’d attained Masterclass, and her barely past what for the unTalented would have been marriageable age. There were few sorcerers among her contemporaries, male or female, that didn’t secretly fear and envy the Masterclass mages. There were no mages of her own rank interested in taking a lover whose powers equaled their own. They preferred their women pliant, pretty, and not too bright. Martis’s relations with her own kind were cordial, but barren.

  Trebenth himself had been one of the few lovers she’d had—and she hadn’t taken another since he’d toppled like a felled tree for his little Margwynwy, and she’d severed that side of their relationship herself. It was times like this one, with her loneliness standing bare in her eyes, that he pitied her with all his heart.

  Martis caught his glance, and smiled thinly. “The Council did their level best to spare me this, I’ll give them that much. The fact is, we don’t know for certain how deeply he’s gotten himself in yet; we know he’s been sacrificing animals, but so far rumors of human deaths are just that—rumors. They want to give him every chance to get himself out of the hole he’s digging for himself. Frankly, he’s got too much Talent to waste. One of the factors in deciding to send me is that they hope he’ll give me a chance to reason with him. If reason doesn’t work, well, I’m one of the few sorcerers around with a chance of defeating him. After all, I taught him. I know all his strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Knew,” Trebenth reminded her. “Can I assign Lyran to your service, now that I’ve vouched for his ability, or are you still wanting someone else?”

  “Who? Oh—the boy. All right, Ben, you know what you’re doing. You’ve been hiring guards as long as I’ve been training mages. Tell him to get the horses ready, I want to make a start before noon.”

  When Martis had finished ransacking her room for what she wanted, she slung her packed saddlebags over her shoulder and slammed the door on the entire mess. By the time she returned—if she returned—the Guild servants would have put everything back in order again. That was one of the few benefits of being a Masterclass sorceress. The Guild provided comfortable, safe quarters and reliable servants who never complained—at least not to her. Those benefits were paid for, though; a Masterclass mage lived and died in service to the Guild. No one with that rating was ever permitted to take service independently.

  Martis had a liking for heights and a peculiar phobia about having people living above her, so her room was at the top of the staircase that linked all four floors of the Masters’ quarters. As she descended the stairs, she found that a certain reluctant curiosity was beginning to emerge concerning this unlikely swordsman, Lyran. The order she’d given Trebenth, to have the lad ready the horses, was in itself a test. Martis’ personal saddlebeast was an irascible bay gelding of indeterminant age and vile temper, the possessor of a number of bad habits. He’d been the cause of several grooms ending in the Healer’s hands before this. Martis kept him for two reasons—the first was that his gait was as sweet as his temper was foul; the second that he could be trusted to carry a babe safely through Hell once it was securely in the saddle. To Martis, as to any other mage, these traits far outweighed any other considerations. If this Lyran could handle old Tosspot, there was definitely hope for him.

  It was Martis’ turn to blink in surprise when she emerged into the dusty, sunlit courtyard. Waiting for her was the swordsman, the reins of his own beast in one hand and those of Tosspot in the other. Tosspot was not trying to bite, kick, or otherwise mutilate either the young man or his horse. His saddle was in place, and Martis could tell by his disgruntled expression that he hadn’t managed to get away with his usual trick of “blowing” so that his saddle girth would be loose. More amazing still, the swordsman didn’t appear to be damaged in any way, didn’t even seem out of breath.

  “Did he give you any trouble?” she asked, fastening her saddlebags to Tosspot’s harness, and adroitly avoiding his attempt to step on her foot.

  “He is troublesome, yes, Mage-lady, but this one has dealt with a troublesome beast before,” Lyran replied seriously. At just that moment the swordsman’s dust-brown mare lashed out with a wicked hoof, which the young man dodged with reflexive agility. He reached up and seized one of the mare’s ears and twisted it once, hard. The mare immediately resumed her good behavior. “Sometimes it would seem that the best animals are also the vilest of temper,” he continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “It then is of regrettable necessity to prove, that though they are stronger, this one has more knowledge.”

  Martis mounted Tosspot, and nodded with satisfaction when his girth proved to be as tight as it looked. “I don’t think this old boy will be giving you any more trouble. From the sour look he’s wearing, I’d say he learned his lesson quite thoroughly.”

  The swordsman seemed to glide into his saddle and gracefully inclined his head in thanks for the compliment. “Truly he must have more intelligence than Jesalis,” he replied, reining in his mare so that the sorceress could take the lead, “for this one must prove the truth of the lesson to her at least once a day.”

  “Jesalis?” Martis asked incredulously; for the jesalis was a fragile blossom of rare perfume, and nothing about the ugly little mare could remind anyone of a flower.

  “Balance, Mage-lady,” Lyran replied, so earnestly that Martis had to hide a smile. “So foul a temper has she, that it is necessary to give her a sweet name to leaven her nature.”

  They rode out of the Guild-hold in single file with Martis riding in the lead, since protocol demanded that the “hireling” ride behind the “mistress” while they were inside the town wall. Once they’d passed the gates, they reversed position. Lyran would lead the way as well as providing a guard, for all of Martis’ attention must be taken up by her preparations to meet with her wayward former student. Tosspot would obey his training and follow wherever the rider of Jesalis led.

  This was the reason that Tosspot’s gait and reliability were worth more than gold pieces. Most of Martis’ time in the saddle would be spent in a trancelike state as she gradually gathered power to her. It was this ability to garner and store power that made her a Masterclass sorceress—for after all, the most elaborate spell is useless without the power to set it in motion.

  There were many ways to accumulate power. Martis’ was to gather the little aimless threads of it given off by living creatures in their daily lives. Normally this went unused, gradually dissipating, like dye poured into a river. Martis could take these little tag-ends of energy, spin them out and weave them into a fabric that was totally unlike what they had been before. This required total concentration, and there was no room in her calculations for mistake.

  Martis was grateful that Lyran was neither sullen nor inclined to chatter. She was able to sink into her magic gathering-trance undistracted by babble and undisturbed by a muddy, surly aura riding in front of her. Perhaps Ben had been right after all. The boy was so unobtrusive that she might have been riding alone. She spared one scant moment to regret faintly that she would not be able to enjoy the beauties of the summer woods and meadows they were to ride through. It was so seldom that she came this way . . .

  ****

  The atmosphere was so peaceful that it wasn’t until she sensed—more than
felt—the touch of the bodyguard’s hand on her leg that she roused up again. The sun was westering, and before her was a small clearing, with Lyran’s horse contentedly grazing and a small, neat camp already set up. Martis’ tent was to the west of the clearing, a cluster of boulders behind it, and the tent-flap open to the cheerful fire. Lyran’s bedroll lay on the opposite side. Jesalis was unsaddled, and her tack laid beside the bedroll. From what Martis could see, all of her own belongings had been placed unopened just inside the tent. And all had been accomplished without Martis being even remotely aware of it.

  “Your pardon, Mage-lady,” Lyran said apologetically, “but your horse must be unsaddled.”

  “And you can’t do that with me still sitting on him,” Martis finished for him, highly amused. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier? I’m perfectly capable of helping make camp.”

  “The Guard-serjant made it plain to this one that you must be allowed to work your magics without distraction. Will you come down?”

  “Just one moment—” There was something subtly wrong, but Martis couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Before she could say anything, however, Lyran suddenly seized her wrist and pulled her down from her saddle, just as an arrow arced through the air where she had been. Lyran gave a shrill whistle, and Jesalis threw up her head, sniffed the breeze, and charged into the trees to their left. Martis quickly sought cover in some nearby bushes, as Lyran hit the ground and rolled up into a wary crouch.

  A scream from where the mare had vanished told that the horse had removed the obstacle of the archer, but he had not been alone. From under the cover of the trees stepped not one, but three swordsmen. Lyran regained his feet in one swift motion, drew the swords he wore slung across his back, and faced them in a stance that was not of any fighting style Martis recognized. He placed himself so that they would have to pass him to reach her.

  The first of the assassins—Martis was reasonably sure that this was what they were—laughed and swatted at Lyran with the flat of his blade in a careless, backhanded stroke, aiming negligently for his head.

  “This little butterfly is mine—we will see if he likes to play the woman he apes—” he began.

  Lyran moved, lithe as a ferret. The speaker stared stupidly at the sword blade impaling his chest. Lyran had ducked and come up inside his guard, taking him out before he’d even begun to realize what the bodyguard was about.

  Lyran pulled his blade free of the new-made corpse while the assassin still stood. He whirled to face the other two before the first fell to the ground.

  They moved in on him with far more caution than their companion had, circling him warily to attack him from opposite sides. He fended off their assault easily, his two swords blurring, they moved so fast, his movement dancelike. But despite his skill he could seem to find no opening to make a counterattack. For the moment all three were deadlocked. Martis chafed angrily at her feeling of helplessness—the combative magics she’d prepared were all meant to be used against another mage. To use any of the spells she knew that would work against a fighter, she’d have to reach her supplies in her saddlebags—now rather hopelessly out of reach. She found that she was sharply aware of the incongruous scent of the crushed blossoms that lay beneath the dead man’s body.

  The deadlock was broken before Martis could do more than curse at her own helplessness.

  Within the space of a breath, Lyran feinted at the third of the assassins, drawing the second to attack. He caught his opponent’s blade in a bind, and disarmed him with practiced ease. Then the third lunged at him, and he moved aside just enough for his blade to skim past his chest. Lyran’s left-hand blade licked out and cut his throat with the recovery of the stroke that had disarmed the second. Before Martis could blink, he continued the flow of movement before the third could fall to cut the second nearly in half with the sword in his right.

  And behind him, the first dead man rose, sword in hand, and hacked savagely at the unsuspecting Lyran’s blind side. Lyran got one blade up in time to deflect the blow, but the power behind it forced him to one knee. The Undead hammered at the bodyguard, showing sorcerous strength that far exceeded his abilities in life. Lyran was forced down and back, until the Undead managed to penetrate his defenses with an under-and-over strike at his left arm.

  The slice cut Lyran’s arm and shoulder nearly to the bone. The sword dropped from his fingers and he tried to fend off the liche with the right alone.

  The Undead continued to press the attack, its blows coming even faster than before. Lyran was sent sprawling helplessly when it caught him across the temple with the flat of its blade.

  Martis could see—almost as if time had slowed—that he would be unable to deflect the liche’s next strike.

  She, Lyran, and the Undead all made their moves simultaneously.

  Martis destroyed the magic that animated the corpse, but not before it had made a two-handed stab at the bodyguard.

  But Lyran had managed another of those ferret-quick squirms. As the liche struck, he threw himself sideways—a move Martis would have thought impossible, and wound up avoiding impalement by inches. The Undead collapsed then, as the magic supporting it dissolved.

  Freed from having to defend himself, Lyran dropped his second blade, groped for the wound, and sagged to his knees in pain.

  Martis sprinted from out of hiding, reaching the swordsman’s side in five long strides. Given the amount of damage done his arm, it was Lyran’s good fortune that his charge was Masterclass! In her mind she was gathering up the strands of power she’d accumulated during the day, and reweaving them into a spell of healing; a spell she knew so well she needed nothing but her memory to create.

  Even in that short period of time, Lyran had had the presence of mind to tear off the headband that had kept his long hair out of his eyes and tie it tightly about his upper arm, slowing the bleeding. As Martis reached for the wounded arm, Lyran tried feebly to push her away.

  “There is—no need—Mage-lady,” he gasped, his eyes pouring tears of pain.

  Martis muttered an obscenity and cast the spell. “No guard in my service stays wounded,” she growled. “I don’t care what or who you’ve served before; I take care of my own.”

  Having said her say and worked her magics, she went to look at the bodies while the spell did its work.

  What she found was very interesting indeed, so interesting that at first she didn’t notice that Lyran had come to stand beside her where she knelt. When she did notice, it was with some surprise that she saw the slightly greenish cast to the guard’s face, and realized that Lyran was striving valiantly not to be sick. Lyran must have seen her surprise written clear in her expression, for he said almost defensively, “This one makes his living by the sword, Mage-lady, but it does not follow that he enjoys viewing the consequences of his labor.”

  Martis made a noncommittal sound and rose. “Well, you needn’t think your scoutcraft’s at fault, young man. These men—the archer, too, I’d judge—were brought here by magic just a few moments before they attacked us. I wish you could have taken one alive. He could have told us a lot.”

  “It is this one’s humble opinion that one need not look far for the author of the attack,” Lyran said, looking askance at Martis.

  “Oh, no doubt it’s Kelven’s work, all right. He knows what my aura looks like well enough to track me from a distance and pinpoint my location with very little trouble, and I’m sure he knows that it’s me the Guild would send after him. And he knows the nearest Gate-point, and that I’d be heading there. No, what I wish I knew were the orders he gave this bunch. Were they to kill—or to disable and capture?” She dusted her hands, aware that the sun was almost gone and the air was cooling. “Well, I’m no necromancer, so the knowledge is gone beyond my retrieval.”

  “Shall this one remove them?” Lyran still looked a little sick.

  “No, the healing-spell I set on you isn’t done yet, and I don’t want you tearing that wound open again. Go take care of Tosspot and find
your mare, wherever she’s gotten herself to. I’ll get rid of them.”

  Martis piled the bodies together and burned them to ash with mage-fire. It was a bit of a waste of power, but the energy liberated by the deaths of the assassins would more than make up for the loss—though Martis felt just a little guilty at using that power. Violent death always released a great deal of energy—it was a short-cut to gaining vast quantities of it—which was why blood-magic was proscribed by the Guild. Making use of what was released when you had to kill in self-defense was one thing—cold-blooded killing to gain power was something else.

  When Martis returned to the campsite, she discovered that not only had Lyran located his mare and unharnessed and tethered Tosspot, but that he’d made dinner as well. Browning over the pocket-sized fire was a brace of rabbits.

  “Two?” she asked quizzically. “I can’t eat more than half of one. And where did you get them?”

  “This one has modest skill with a sling, and there were many opportunities as we rode,” Lyran replied. “And the second one is for breakfast in the morning.”

  Lyran had placed Tosspot’s saddle on the opposite side of the fire from his own, just in front of the open tent. Martis settled herself on her saddle to enjoy her dinner. The night air was pleasantly cool, night creatures made sounds around them that were reassuring because it meant that no one was disturbing them. The insects of the daylight hours were gone, those of the night had not yet appeared. And the contradictions in her guard’s appearance and behavior made a pleasant puzzle to mull over.

  “I give up,” she said at last, breaking the silence between them, silence that had been punctuated by the crackle of the fire. “You are the strangest guard I have ever had.”

  Lyran looked up, and the fire revealed his enigmatic expression. He had eaten his half of the rabbit, but had done so as if it were a duty rather than a pleasure. He still looked a bit sickly.