possibility,” Angus mused. “The dwarves could have caused the eruptions.”
“Them dwarves?” Billigan scoffed. “Ha!”
Angus frowned and met his gaze. “Some dwarves have magic.”
“Well,” Billigan said. “I wouldn’t know about that. All I know is that King Vir had to admit defeat. He wasn’t at all happy about it; he lost a lot of treasure when that mountain blew. His lineage tried again and again to tame the region, but it wasn’t until King Lar, Tyr’s grandfather, that they managed to do it.”
“Oh? How did he do it?” Angus asked.
Billigan shrugged. “Magic.”
Angus tilted his head. “Magic tamed the volcanoes?” he asked. Flame magic, no doubt, and Voltari taught me quite a few spells from that sphere. Almost all of his spells involved flame magic in some way or another. But volcanoes? They have far too much violent energy for my—or anyone else’s—spells to control!
Billigan nodded. “You’ll see it for yourself when you get to Hellsbreath,” he continued. “King Lar is the one who rebuilt this road. It goes through Hellsbreath pass and into the western lands. A great deal of trade passes along it, and that’s why we have to keep it clean. If this were the time for caravans, they would have sent wizards out to move this stone instead of us, but this time of year we get to cut the rockfalls up into cobblestones. That’s how the road has grown so much since Lar’s day.”
“Do a lot of rocks fall?” Angus asked.
Billigan nodded. “Not many this big, of course,” he said. “They’re usually about a third this size, maybe less.”
“Is all of The Tween volcanic?” Angus asked. “Or just the part near Hellsbreath?”
“Just Hellsbreath,” Billigan said, “It comes north to about here, and south and west through the mountains. But most of the activity is around Hellsbreath.”
“What about the rest of The Tween? You indicated it goes almost as far north as the east-west road.”
“It isn’t volcanic now,” Billigan said. “But in Vir’s day, it was. Nobody’s been willing to risk living there since then, what with the dwarves, the things that eat people, the things that eat the things that eat people, and the threat of volcanoes erupting all around them.”
“Elhouit Achnut,” Angus muttered, looking at the mysterious phrase Ulrich had written in the middle of the northern portion of The Tween and wondering what the words meant.
“Eh?” Billigan asked.
“Just thinking aloud,” Angus said. “It isn’t important.”
“Well,” Billigan said. “That’s what The Tween is, too. Not important. Almost no one ever goes there, and those that do almost never come back—and you can’t trust what the ones who do come back say about it.”
“All right,” Angus said. “What else do I need to know about it?”
Billigan sighed and said, “It’s late, Angus.”
Angus glanced around and noticed for the first time that almost all of the workers were asleep. Some were snoring softly, and he, Billigan, and the young boy were the only ones still awake. “You’re right,” he said, nodding. “I’ve kept you long enough.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay with us tomorrow,” Billigan offered.
Angus shook his head. “No,” he said. “I need to get to Hellsbreath before the caravans arrive.”
“Of course,” Billigan said, clearly disappointed. “Some rest, then. You can grab a blanket and find an empty spot.”
Angus nodded and watched as Billigan went to a pile of blankets, picked one up, shook it, moved a little away from the cluster of workmen, and lay down. Angus rolled up his map, returned it to his backpack, and hung the lantern back up. He dimmed its light to little more than a weak candle’s brightness, picked up a blanket, and found a shadowy corner. He lay down, his head against his backpack, and draped the blanket over him. He closed his eyes.
The workmen were snoring. One had quiet little snorts. Another had heavy, long-winded wheezing. A third had rhythmic grunts. They were quite distracting; he couldn’t sleep.
After a few minutes, he sighed and sat up.
Still the body.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Still the mind.
He ran through the silent mantra until he was relaxed and his attention was sharpened to a fine point, eliminating one sound after another from his conscious awareness. When he finished, he lay back and rested. He wasn’t sleeping, exactly, but he wasn’t actively engaged with the world, either. It was a sort of middle ground between the two, one in which he could remain mentally alert while not thinking of anything in particular, and physically at rest without being completely inactive. Eventually, he would need full sleep and the dreams that would come with it, but the meditative exercise could forestall that need for several days.
He was still in this state when he heard a footfall just outside the tent flap.
It was a familiar footfall.
He opened his eyes and brought the magical threads into focus.
The thief had pursued him.
He was not alone.
13
The footsteps—almost as silent as walking on butterfly wings—made their way slowly around the tent’s exterior, as if the man accompanying them was studying the thick cloth of the tent wall for some sign of weakness.
In the distance, barely audible even in Angus’s highly attuned state, a horse snickered. There were other horses with it, but he couldn’t tell how many. Someone dismounted, metal softly clacking against metal, muffled by a layer of cloth. Armor? They were near the boulder.
Angus slid the blanket from him, the cloth brutally rough against the hypersensitive skin of his hand. As he sat up, he quickly brought the magic closer to him. He reached for a deeply crimson strand of flame—a strong one full of energy—and wrapped it gently around his right forearm. The energy pulsed, its barely constrained incendiary force writhing furiously over his skin and trying to break free. Once it was firmly anchored, he sought the second strand. He avoided the deep navy blue strands—too much moisture in them—in favor of a thin, sky blue one. It would have less sky magic in it, which would help to contain the explosive force while feeding it just the right amount of air. He didn’t want to kill Giorge; he only wanted to warn the thief and his companions away. But if it wasn’t Giorge, if his memory of Giorge’s footfalls was flawed, he wanted to be prepared.
He started intertwining the two strands, alternately knotting the sky around the flame and then the flame around the sky. They were simple knots, ones that would come apart quickly when he released them. He kept making knots until the two strands were fighting against him so strongly that it became difficult to contain them, to keep them from breaking free and releasing their energies. He gripped the last knot in his right hand and held it as tightly as he could as the complex chain wiggled about his arm as if it were an angry.
He eased himself slowly upright, balancing on his left knuckles.
The thief was almost directly across from the tent opening, and Angus walked as softly as he could to the flap. He opened it a crack and peered out. It was dark, but the kind of light darkness that can only happen in the mountains on a cloudless night. The unimpeded starlight was more than enough for him to see the vague shapes of a handful of horses and four men gathered next to them. Three of the men had bows ready at their sides; the fourth was a towering silhouette of armor. Angus let the flap fall back into place and turned toward the sound of Giorge’s quiet breathing, just beyond the tent wall. He walked swiftly through the tent to within a few feet of the sound, not overly concerned about the noise he knew would be heard. When he was in position, he said “Hello, Giorge.” His voice low, steady, calm.
The breathing paused.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Angus purred. “Or shall I introduce myself?”
The boy stirred in his sleep, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and asked, “What is it?”
Angus held up his left hand for silence. “Well Giorg
e? Which will it be?”
Giorge was breathing again, but he wasn’t moving. A few more seconds passed, and then Giorge softly asked, “Angus?”
Angus smiled; he hadn’t told him his name. “Yes,” he said, “and I am prepared.” The spell was fighting against him, and sweat was beading on his forehead from the effort to control it. He would have to release the spell soon or the knots would begin to unravel on their own, releasing an unguided torrent of flame….
Giorge’s footfalls moved quickly away. Angus followed after them until they stopped just outside the tent opening. Giorge slid his fingers through it and lifted it slowly outward. When he saw Angus, he said, “We’ve been looking for you.”
A few of the workers woke up, saw the stranger at their door, and began waking their comrades. They tried to move quietly to their tools, but the sounds they were making shouted out their activity. Angus and Giorge ignored them.
“For what purpose?” Angus asked, letting the spell slip a little closer to release.
Giorge glanced back at his friends and said, “We’d like to make you a proposition,” he said.
Angus felt the sweat trickling from the furrow of his brow as he tilted his head. “What kind of proposition?” he asked. His right hand began to tremble.
Still the body.
“Our banner needs a wizard,” Giorge said. “We’d like to offer you the position.”
Angus frowned in surprise, and the spell almost slipped free before he could pinch the last knot tightly between his fingertips. He winced