Deep-Spire

  Chapter Seven

  Ghosts

  Lake Darkness, Central Omagen

 

  A misty dawn rose over the lake, casting its pale light over the cluster of timber buildings perched on lake’s edge. The stillness of the night lingered. There were few folk about on the docks when three cloaked figures left The Lake Witch Tavern. The fog, thick as porridge, rolled in across the lake, blotting out the glow of the rising sun.

  Belythna saddled her horse and led it out of the stables. Jedin and Floriana followed her in tense silence. Mist wreathed them as they swung up onto their mounts and rode away from the docks. The thud of their horses’ hooves on the wooden platform was the only sound on this still morning. Belythna was relieved when they reached the dirt road that circled the port, where the sound of their passing was muffled somewhat.

  Although they had done nothing wrong, she sensed that their presence was not welcome here. The inn-keeper had been civil enough but the glares the three of them had received, as they sat discussing what they would do with the information they had gleaned, had been openly hostile.

  Riadamor and her band of followers had brought fear to Darkness, making life for the Sentorân even more difficult. When the three of them had left the dining room, to continue their conversation upstairs, mutters and whispers had followed them.

  Fatigue pulled down at Belythna. She rubbed her tired face in an effort to wake herself up. They had slept little, after spending most of the night arguing about their next move. Belythna planned to travel to the foothills of the Sables, and discover more about this group. She wanted to return to Deep-Spire with details of where they were hiding, and of their numbers. However, Jedin and Floriana had disagreed. They wanted to return immediately to Deep-Spire and tell Lady Serina what they had heard, rather than investigate further.

  It had taken Belythna a while, but eventually she had persuaded her companions that their leader would want more details. They had travelled days to discover that Riadamor had resurfaced. If they could find out where she was hiding as well, she would be easier to apprehend.

  Belythna urged her horse into a brisk trot, eager to be free of Darkness and its brooding, watchful presence. The three riders left the village behind them and followed the rutted dirt road south along the lake’s edge. Autumn’s chill was definitely in the air this morning. It had been a long, hot summer but the lazy days of warmth were drawing to a close. Further along the shore, the Sentorân passed a cluster of cottages inhabited by fishermen, with ragged nets hanging outside to dry. The smell of wood-smoke greeted them but they caught no glimpse of folk about on this mist-shrouded morning.

  Eventually, the dawn sky lightened and the sun cleared the tops of the Sables. The fog drifted away, revealing a shrubby landscape, and dun-coloured mountains to the east, covered by dry, scrub woodland. After a scorching summer, the landscape was cracked and parched – desperate for rain.

  The road they travelled would have taken them for many more leagues around the southern edge of Lake Darkness, before finishing at the Dragon Gorge. Far to the south, Belythna could make out the shadowy outlines of the Low Dragon Spines, the great mountain range that marked the border with the Realm of Westhealm. However, instead, of continuing in that direction, the trio veered east mid-morning, and took a narrow track up through the gently sloping foothills of the Sable Range.

  The track was rough, rocky and difficult going for the horses. As such, the Sentorân travelled slowly. The three companions spoke little among them; each lost in their own thoughts. They had travelled a short way into the foothills, when Belythna halted her horse and twisted in the saddle.

  “The track is too rough,” she called back to the others. “We’ll need to get off and lead the horses or they’ll end up with stone bruises.”

  Jedin and Floriana nodded. They followed Belythna’s lead as she swung down from the saddle. Then, in single file, they led their horses up the rutted track.

  A short time later, Belythna realised that something was wrong.

  If she had not been so tired, if her thoughts had not kept drifting, she would have noticed immediately.

  The trill and chatter of the birds had disappeared.

  The morning had gone silent and the fine hair on the back of Belythna’s neck suddenly stood erect, her skin prickling as if she stood naked in a draft.

  They were being watched – she could sense it. Her talent was attuned to such things. She had been trained to detect when she was under scrutiny. Slowly, not wanting to draw suspicion, Belythna’s gaze scanned her surroundings. Everything seemed as it should be. They were travelling up a particularly steep incline, studded with boulders and carpeted in briar rose and bramble – yet with each passing step her instincts screamed a warning.

  Belythna stopped abruptly, swivelling back to where Floriana walked close behind her. If Floriana had been of the same talent as her, as Riadamor had been, she would have been able to convey a clear warning merely by making eye contact. However, Floriana was of the Heart, like their leader, Serina, and her power lay in her emotions. Beside Floriana, Jedin pulled his horse to a halt, his dark gaze fixing upon Belythna’s face.

  “Danger,” Belythna hissed. “Ready yourselves!”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth when green-cloaked figures exploded from behind boulders further up the track. A moment later, the air was thick with sharp stones that pummelled the three Sentorân like hail.

  Belythna’s horse snorted and pulled back, dragging her with it. She hung on and turned back towards their attackers, trying to gain an idea of their number. A brief glimpse, before a stone grazed her scalp, revealed that there were at least half a dozen of them. She could not see their faces, for they wore deep hoods.

  She saw immediately, from their stance – legs apart, arms outstretched – that they were sorcerers.

  Not only that, but they were displaying the battle stance of those trained in the talent of the Head. Her talent.

  Their attackers moved out into the open, upon seeing that their initial assault had been successful. The three Sentorân had halted and were struggling to control their horses. Once they had advanced, the cloaked figures resumed their battle stance once more, and flung their hands out in unison.

  The earth around the Sentorân exploded.

  Hunks of earth and rocks pelted them, and funnels of air raced along the dirt track towards them. When the first hit Belythna, she lost control of her horse. With a squeal of terror, the beast tore itself from her grasp and took off the way they had come. Belythna heard Floriana cry out as her horse did the same, followed by the sound of Jedin withdrawing his sword from its scabbard.

  Unlike his female companions, Jedin had surrendered to the inevitable and released his horse as soon as their attackers advanced. He needed both hands free in order to fight.

  Another rock found its mark, slamming into Belythna’s shoulder with a force that made her cry out.

  Enough. It was time to fight back.

  Belythna assumed her battle stance; the mirror image of those attacking her. She summoned her flame, letting it expand so that it roared like a furnace within her. Then, she used revagrin to hold it firm. For what was to come she could not risk her flame going out.

  At her shoulder, Floriana crossed her arms over her chest, in the stance of her talent and Jedin swung his blade in an arc before him. Each gathered their power close for an instant, while an unnatural storm of dirt and stones slammed against them.

  Then they set their talents free.

  Belythna unleashed a tempest from her fingers – a hungry twister that cut through the storm and flattened the nearest green-robed figures in her path.

  Floriana, head bowed, shouted out a string of words in a lilting tongue – Ancient Goranthian – the language of sorcerers through the ages. Belythna felt the whisper of something pass her right shoulder. An invisible hand struck their attackers and pummelled one of them to the ground. With a shriek, the figure cru
mpled, and lay unmoving.

  Jedin shouted the battle cry of the Hand. His blade moved in a white streak. He deflected the storm of rocks that hurtled towards them, batting them away as he dived and twirled like a dancer. Such a feat would normally have just dented the blade, even one of the highest quality folded steel. Yet, Jedin’s sword was enchanted. It was fused to his talent, part of his will. It repelled the debris, without the slightest damage to his sword. Jedin turned the flying stones upon those who had launched them. A sharp rock to the skull felled another of their attackers.

  A surge of power rippled down Belythna’s arms. It made her feel vibrantly alive; the world around her stood out in sharp relief. The colours, sounds and smells of the dry hillside were suddenly much sharper than before. It was a dangerous sensation, and she recognised it as such. She broke the neck of one of their attackers with the twist of her hands.

  These sorcerers were young, she realised; newly trained and untested. Even though they outnumbered the Sentorân, they were no match for the three that stood before them – that was, until one of their number did something none of the Sentorân had anticipated.

  One of the figures, small and quick, leapt over a boulder and crouched at its base near one of the fallen attackers. Belythna caught a glimpse of the shadowed face of a girl, in late adolescence.

  Then the girl spat out a word and flung her hands forward.

  A column of white fire shot from her outstretched hands. Only Belythna’s quick reflexes, and her highly attuned senses, saved her life. She ducked as the fire roared over her head. She felt the deathly heat of it and dropped to a crouch, ready to spring again if another attack came.

  This was a bad turn of events. Belythna realised that she had just witnessed the pale fire that the inn-keeper back in Darkness had warned them off. When she had heard the tale, Belythna had wanted to believe that the pale fire had not been borne of sorcery, but had been the work of alchemy. Yet she had just seen it with her own eyes.

  Fire had sprouted from that girl’s fingertips.

  How had Riadamor created such a weapon?

  Another column of fire roared across the path. This time, Belythna scrambled backwards, only to hear the hiss of its heat singeing her cloak. Yet another tongue of white flame barrelled towards her. It would have found its mark if Jedin had not dived in between her and deflected the pale fire with his blade.

  Belythna picked herself up off the ground. She glanced across at Jedin and saw that his face was contorted with fury.

  “Fall back!” she called out to her companions.

  “What?” Floriana shouted above the howl of the tempest that still raged around them. The other ghostly shapes of the girl’s companions had moved up behind her, their courage bolstered. “We can’t let them beat us.”

  Belythna’s reply was cut off when she was forced to dive behind Jedin as another volley of pale fire exploded towards them. Once again, Jedin used his sword as a shield. The fire hit the blade with a hiss but did not penetrate further.

  “It’s not worth it,” she shouted back. “We’ve never encountered this before. This is a trap – they were waiting for us.”

  “How do you know that?” Floriana demanded.

  “I sensed it,” Belythna countered, “the moment they attacked. They didn’t bother to hide their thoughts from me. They’re about to close us in. We need to escape – now.”

  “A bit late for a change of heart now,” Jedin snarled. “I told you it was unwise to come here without telling Serina first.”

  Belythna threw him a dark look before venting her rage through her talent. This time, instead of unleashing her talent on their attackers, she angled her hands towards the ground, around ten feet from where they stood.

  The earth erupted in an explosion that threw the Sentorân backwards, knocking all three of them to the ground. However, the tactic had worked. A choking cloud of dust now enveloped them.

  “Hurry,” Belythna leapt to her feet and yanked a dazed Floriana up after her. Her friend’s neatly braided blonde hair had come loose, and was now hanging wildly in her face. Her pale cheeks were smudged with dirt. “We don’t have long to get clear.”

  This time, neither of her companions argued.

  Jedin scrambled to his feet and followed the two women down the narrow track. They stumbled on the uneven, potholed ground but did not slow their pace.

  The dust burned Belythna’s throat, her scalp stung and her left shoulder ached from where she had been hit by rocks. Yet, she ignored her discomfort and raced on. She did not stop running until they reached the flat, open land at the bottom of the foothills. They had run so far that they could see the waters of Lake Darkness glittering in the distance.

  The Sentorân halted their flight, and bent double as they struggled to regain their breaths. Belythna’s pulse was still pounding in her ears when she raised her head and looked back the way they had come. Her gaze followed the line of the narrow track that wound its way up the scrubby, rock-studded hillside, searching for any sign of their pursuers.

  The dust had settled. The foothills of the Sables were still and empty as if not a soul inhabited them.

  Chapter Eight

  The Marshals

  Deep-Spire, Central Omagen