Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

The spell came-swiftly, thank the goddess. Leifander’s hand speeded to a blur, and a roaring wind sprang from it. He directed the wind at the spiders, no more than a dozen paces away. As it struck, they slowed and hunkered to the ground. Struggling like men in a gale, they at first were blown backward a step or two, but after a moment’s confusion they bent low and used their claw-tipped legs to drag themselves slowly forward.

“We’ve got to shift,” Leifander shouted at Larajin over the roar of wind. “These spiders can climb trees. Flying is the only way we’ll escape them. You go first!”

Larajin shook her head and pointed stubbornly at the spot where the man was hanging. “We can’t just leave Dray. The spiders will kill him.”

“He’s probably already dead.”

“What if he’s still alive?”

“Why do you care?”

“He tried to save my life,” Larajin said. “I owe the same to him.”

That, Leifander could understand, even if he didn’t like it.

He nodded at Larajin and said, “Then we’ll make a stand.”

It didn’t look hopeful, however. The spiders had taken advantage of the twins’ exchange of words and were making headway against the wind. Even with it howling against them, so close were they now that the stink of them filled the air, making Leifander gag.

Larajin clasped the locket around her wrist and called, “Keep your spell going. I’m going to try something.”

She began to pray.

Had he the time, Leifander would have told her that it was probably too late. His spell was already failing. The fluttering in his hand was slowing to the point where his fingers were no longer a blur, and the strength of the magical wind was starting to drop. Made bolder, the spiders forced their way closer-too close to keep them all within the blast of wind. With a triumphant chitter, one of them suddenly found itself unimpeded, and leaped forward. It bit down, grazing Leifander’s forearm even as he jerked it back.

Leifander quickly shifted the aim of his spell and forced the spider back, but too late. A numbness seized his arm, and it felt as if he had banged his elbow against something hard. His fluttering hand slowed, nearly stopped, then one of Larajin’s hands began to glow.

In that same moment, the air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. She grabbed for his wounded forearm, and the numbness disappeared. For a wild moment Leifander thought that negating the venom was all she intended-that it wouldn’t be enough. In another instant they would be swarmed by the spiders. Already the foul things were crouching, preparing to leap.

The tressym dived from the sky, howling a challenge. Brilliant wings flashing, it hurled itself straight at the spider closest to Leifander and Larajin-then swerved at the last moment, just out of reach. Legs bunched and the spider leaped, trying for this new prey. The tressym, however, was too swift for it. The spider fell back to the ground, venom dripping from its mouth.

The distraction was only momentary, but it was enough. Larajin’s hand slid down Leifander’s arm, toward his hand.

“Sune and Hanali Celanil, lend me a little of the water of Evergold-add your holy waters to my brother’s storm!” she shouted.

A rush of energy flowed through Leifander and pulsed from his fingertips. His hand again blurred and seemed to fuse with Larajin’s. A spray of rain erupted from their fingers.

The rain, blown horizontally by the wind, shimmered with a golden glow. It struck the closest spider as it was preparing to leap, pitting its hairy flesh like sling stones. Chattering with rage and pain, the spider turned and tried to run but only managed a step or two before collapsing into a tangled heap of broken legs.

With the closest spider down, Leifander was able to direct his magical wind full force at the remaining three. He drove the magical rain at them, and as it struck it created sizzling pits in their flesh. The spiders cowered, trying to protect their heads by lowering them to the ground-then as one they turned and bolted. Blown by the wind at their backs, they skidded down the trail, chattering in terror as they tried to outrun the deadly rain. They made it no more than a few dozen paces, however, before crumpling to the ground like the first. There they seemed to melt, like lumps of dark clay in the rain. Still the shimmering drops, blown by the relentless magic wind, drove into them.

When nothing was left but a few scraps of hair and broken bits of leg, Larajin let go of Leifander’s hand, and the spells ceased. Her eyes closed in relief, and she whispered a prayer of thanks to her goddesses.

Leifander echoed it. “Our spells…” he said slowly, nodding down at the little that remained of the spider that had fallen closest to them. “They shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

Larajin gave him an exhausted smile. “Not on their own, but together …”

He nodded, understanding. “The gods joined forces-through us-just as Hanali Celanil and Sune come together in you to augment your magic.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and offered a contrite word of thanks-not just to the Winged Mother, but to Larajin’s goddesses as well-for this twist of fate. Thanks to Larajin’s stubbornness, they’d come close to being killed, but as a result, he had learned an amazing truth. Their spells, when joined, could be as powerful as those of the mightiest cleric.

It was something worth thinking about.

But first, there was the matter of the man in the tree to deal with. Larajin was already hurrying through the woods toward him, feet slipping on the rotted vegetation underfoot. Leifander jogged after her, and as he drew nearer to the oak tree, he got a better look at the man hanging from it.

The fellow was in his early twenties-fully adult, when measured in terms of the human life span-and had a handsome face. His jaw, framed by a thin line of neatly trimmed beard, hung slack, and his eyes were closed.

Was he a friend that Larajin knew from Selgaunt, perhaps? He was certainly dressed like a Sembian, in a doublet of blue and purple, dark blue hose, and what remained of a lace-collared shirt, its sleeves torn off at the shoulders. One of the sleeves had been tied around his arm in a makeshift bandage that was dark with dried blood.

As he drew closer to the oak, Leifander could see that the fellow was indeed breathing. Eyes roved beneath the closed lids, as if he were dreaming. Not unconscious, then, but the victim of some sort of spell.

Goldheart, having followed Larajin and Leifander, landed on a branch just above the sleeping man. With catlike curiosity, she stalked along the branch, sniffed him, then pawed at his cheek. When he did not respond, she settled back onto her haunches, considered a moment, then began to groom herself, as if she’d lost all interest in the fellow.

Leifander, however, remained curious. The magic that had induced the man’s slumber must have been powerful. Either the person who had left him hanging on the tree-or someone who had come along the trail later, after the blight had revealed the spot where he hung-had stripped the fellow of his valuables without managing to wake him. A scabbed-over crease in his earlobe showed that an earring had been torn from it, and the little finger of his left hand was twisted at an odd angle and swollen to twice its size, as if someone had wrenched a ring from it.

As Larajin reached up to grab the man’s legs and lift him down, Leifander saw clumps of loose earth around the base of the tree, partially hidden by the blighted vegetation. Suddenly he realized the oak’s significance.

“Don’t!” Leifander shouted. He leaped forward and knocked Larajin’s arms down. “You’ll be caught up in the spell.”

Irritation smoldered in Larajin’s eyes. “It’s only a sleep spell,” she said. “It doesn’t rub off on other people.”