knots when the workmen entered. They were laughing, talking, clapping each other, but Angus was completely absorbed in the priming and set the intrusion aside. He had to; if he lost control now….
Dirdl tried to intervene, but they pushed him aside and moved to the table, filling flagons with beer and grabbing loaves of bread.
Angus ignored them, turned to the next knot. It was a simple one, the kind that could easily be taken for granted….
Billigan cried out a greeting and sat down across from Angus.
The next knot was a complex one, and he almost made a mistake….
Billigan was chattering, going on and on about a wounded hand. Was it his? It didn’t matter; he needed to concentrate. Billigan paused, clearly expecting a reply of some sort.
Two more knots left….
Billigan repeated something he had just said, this time more urgently.
The last knot was crucial. It indicated how to conclude the spell, how to restrain the power unleashed in the spell and let its threads return to their natural state….
Billigan reached out, put his hand on the scroll. It crinkled as he gripped it too tightly. He pushed it unceremoniously down, trying to force Angus to look at him. “Angus?”
Angus shuddered, lost contact with the magic within himself….
He blinked rapidly….
The spell….
“Are you all right?” Billigan asked.
Angus took a slow, deep breath. The muscles along his jaw threatened to snap as the narrow slits of his eyes settled on Billigan’s sweaty, dirty hand gripping his scroll. When he lifted his gaze to meet Billigan’s, all he saw was a soft, blurry outline of a face. He blinked once and noted how odd Billigan’s mouth looked when it was open, as if the teeth were trying to swallow the emptiness beside them. He blinked again, lifting his gaze up a few inches, meeting the wide-eyed fear in his companion’s eyes.
The scroll rustled as Billigan’s hand shook. He let go, and his arm snapped backward.
Angus carefully smoothed the intruding wrinkles, tried to erase the stains, and then rolled up the scroll. He turned to Dirdl and said, his voice a sinister whisper, “I told you no intrusions.”
Dirdl wrung his hands together. “I t-t-tried—” he stuttered. “They—”
Billigan closed his mouth, gulped. He took a breath, steadied himself somewhat, and said, “Don’t blame Dirdl. I didn’t listen to him.”
Angus turned his attention back to Billigan and said, “It can be deadly to interrupt a wizard when he is in that state.”
Billigan nodded. “My apologies, Mage,” he said. “I was unaware….”
Angus put the two scrolls in his backpack. “I assume you have a reason for the intrusion.”
Billigan exhaled, half-smiled, and nodded vigorously. “They’re back.”
“Who?” Angus asked.
“Them that was here last night,” Billigan replied. “The Banner of the Wounded Hand.”
Angus frowned. “Oh?”
Billigan nodded again. “They’re outside,” he continued. “They request an audience with you.”
Audience? Angus laughed, feeling the tension lifting from his shoulders as if he were shedding a pair of monstrous, crumpled butterfly wings.
The workmen grew quiet, watched him.
Dirdl looked as if he were about to jump into the laundry barrel.
Billigan chuckled and fidgeted, as if he wasn’t sure which he should do.
When his laughter dwindled to inconsistent chuckling, Angus stood up, draped his backpack over his shoulders, and said, “Well then Billigan, it is time we parted company. Thank you for the hospitality of your tent.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked rapidly toward the tent flap, thinking about that last knot and wondering if it ended in an inward or outward loop. It would do no good to look at the scroll to find out; the whole sequence had to be primed without interruption….
Hellsbreath
1
Angus stepped through the tent flap and was buffeted by a stiff, chill breeze coming from the mountains to the west. He turned that way and studied the clouds scattered across the horizon. Rain? he wondered. Another day in the tent? The sun was just past its zenith, though, and there was plenty of time to find shelter before the storm arrived. If a storm arrived; the heavy rain fell on the west side of the mountains.
Off to the side, patches of scorched ground were ringed by brittle, dry grass. If his aim had been lower or the workmen less efficient, much of the hillside would have been burned.
The boulder was lower than it had been the day before, and the stacks of cobblestones were a bit higher. Several men sat atop horses next to it, and one edged forward. It was Giorge.
“Hail Wizard,” he called. “Is it safe to approach?”
Angus half-smiled and thought about saying no, but waved him forward. As he neared, Angus asked, “What is it, Giorge?”
Giorge trotted to a stop a few yards from him, turned his horse sideways, and leaned toward Angus. “You aren’t going to try to kill me again, are you? That fire last night was a bit too close for my liking. I think it even singed my eyebrows.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider sneaking up on wizards,” Angus said, noting the thin black eyebrows were perfectly fine. His cloak was turned with the light gray inside and the black outside, but neither would provide much concealment in this rocky terrain.
Giorge grinned, the white of his teeth punctuating the brown of his skin. “No sneaking this time!”
“Indeed,” Angus agreed. “What of your friends?”
“Would you like to meet them?” Giorge asked. “They are anxious to meet you.”
“Why?” Angus asked.
Giorge moved his horse to the side and pointed at a slumped form draped over one of the horses. “We need a wizard,” he said. “Ours is dead.”
“Oh?” Angus prompted.
Giorge shook his head. “Poor old Teffles. He ran the wrong way.”
Angus frowned, wondering what he meant and not sure if he cared to know. “Billigan called you the ‘Banner of the Wounded Hand.’”
Giorge grinned and perched like a chicken strutting in his saddle. “That’s us, all right.”
“What is it?”
“What is what?”
“What is the Banner of the Wounded Hand?”
“That’s us,” Giorge said. “Ortis, Hobart, and me.”
Angus looked at the rest of the group—there were four, three of whom looked remarkably similar to each other even at a distance. “Who are the other two?” he asked.
“Other two?” Giorge repeated, looking back.
“There are five of you, but you named only three,” Angus said. “Who are the other two members of your little group?”
“Our Banner,” Giorge corrected. “We are officially sanctioned and registered within the Kingdom of Tyr.”
“Banner, then,” Angus said. “Who are the other two?”
“Why don’t I bring them forward so you can meet them?”
“All right,” Angus said, and Giorge quickly waved the others closer. “We can talk while we walk.”
“It’s better if we ride,” Giorge said. “We have an extra horse you can use.”
Angus frowned, wondering if he knew how to ride a horse. “Tell me more about this banner,” he said, trying to cover up his uncertainty. “What is it, really?”
“Well,” Giorge said. “It would be better to ask Hobart. He’s the one who started it.”
As the riders neared, Angus assessed them. One was a stocky, barrel-chested fellow almost completely concealed beneath the bulk of his dented, grass-stained plate armor. His wooden shield was a stark contrast to the metal plates, and the helm had clearly seen better days. The hilt of a sword stuck up over his left shoulder, the massive grip suggesting a sizeable blade. An axe dangled from a strap wrapped around the saddle horn, resting against the shoulder of his steed—a large black mare with fierce, battle-worn eyes. When he reined i
n his horse and removed his helmet, a tangled mass of wavy, tallow-textured hair cascaded over his shoulders and the sun glinted off the sweat lining his receding hairline. His moustache was thick and angry, and he had long sideburns, but his chin was free of even the barest hint of stubble. He leveled his walnut-colored eyes at Angus and nodded. “Well met,” he said.
Angus nodded in reply and turned to study the man next to him. He was of average build but looked almost dwarf-like next to the exaggerated bulk of the first man’s armor. He wore a gray-green tunic and breeches, and his brown leather boots were flexible, soft-soled, the kind that would fall quietly on brittle dry leaves. He held a bow loosely in his right hand, and a quiver of arrows was slung over his left shoulder. His left hand rested near—but not on—the hilt of a short, curved knife. He wore a brown leather cloak, and when his horse settled, he lifted the hood and let it fall backward. His skin was pale, like frothy fresh milk, and it contrasted wildly with the short-cropped black hair and the mottled gray of his steed. But what was most striking were his eyes: they had orange-tinted irises and the pupils were narrow, vertical slits—like a cat’s. Those eyes met his with an implacable gaze that suggested controlled violence tempered by deep wisdom, a kind of reserved preparedness for action.
“Well met,” the next man said, his voice a soft tenor that seemed to snap across the gap between them. Angus turned to him, and his mouth slipped open as a soft gasp escaped through his lips. The third man was the spitting image of the second man, even down to the peculiar orange eyes. Identical Twins! The man smiled—a thin, knowing smile with the cream of his teeth peeking through the narrow slit made by his lips—and the last