Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Larajin?

The thought drifted into his mind, then was gone. The tressym shot past, a downbeat of its wings scattering Leifander like smoke when a wick is blown out.

After a moment, he found cohesion again, and remembered his purpose. The tent-the big one, below. Maalthiir. But somehow, the passion that had enflamed him a few short moments ago was gone.

Drifting toward the ground, he floated gently past one of the Red Plumes who stood at rigid attention outside the tent, then drifted for a moment in front of the tent flap, seeking an opening. The soldier whirled, suddenly alert, as the ties that held the flap shut fluttered with Leifander’s passing-and Leifander was inside.

The interior of the tent was lit with a profusion of candles mounted in rows on black iron candelabras that had been driven into the earth. Thick rugs, once beautiful but now tracked with mud, were strewn haphazardly across the floor of the tent. Strongboxes had been stacked atop them to form a long, low table around which three of Maalthiir’s officers clustered. One of them was pouring red wine for the others.

Maalthiir himself was seated in a folding chair with thick pads of leather cushioning its seat and arms, drinking from a gold goblet. He lowered it, and made a show of smacking his lips.

“Sembian wine is sweet, but tomorrow you’ll see if Sembian blood is even sweeter, eh, General Guff?”

The officer he’d addressed-a human with dark hair and a heavy growth of beard slashed by an scar that puckered forehead, eye, and cheek in a vertical line-chuckled. Lifting his own goblet, he drew his sword from its scabbard and poured wine along its gleaming blade.

“To victory,” he toasted, then thrust the sword into the air.

The other two officers-a bald fellow with a barrel chest, and a lean, fair-haired man with whipcord muscles-joined the toast.

The bald officer rumbled a toast of his own. “To our allies.”

The slender officer arched an eyebrow. “Which ones?” he asked. “I need to know whether to wish them victory or defeat.”

Maalthiir guffawed at this apparent witticism while the two lesser officers roared with laughter, but Leifander could see nothing funny in the words. Neither could General Guff, it seemed. He growled low in his throat like a dog about to bare its fangs, and the other two officers immediately fell silent.

Maalthiir continued chuckling, his wine slopping onto his fingers as he made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, Guff. Always so serious. Nadire was just making a joke.”

“He should be wary of those who listen,” the general growled.

Leifander, who had been gently drifting up to this point, shrank in upon himself like a sharply indrawn breath.

“What do you mean?” Maalthiir asked, sitting forward suddenly in his chair and looking warily around. “Who’s listening?”

Solemnly, Guff pointed at the ceiling of the tent. “The gods. Lord Tempus, specifically. His favor can be fickle.”

“Ah.” Maalthiir relaxed back into his chair, transferred his goblet to his other hand, and flicked the spilled wine from his fingers. “Let us pray to him then, for success.” He raised his goblet. “May Tempus grant victory and defeat to the appropriate parties, so that our road-building venture maybe a success.”

The two lesser officers chuckled along with their lord at these last few words, which must have been a shared joke of some kind. Guff, however, turned his sword point-uppermost and bowed his head in prayer, his eyes closed and forehead touching the blade. A dribble of the wine he’d poured on the sword trickled down the steel onto his face, making it look as though he had been baptized with blood. His lips moved in silent prayer.

Leifander, as he drifted around the tent, noted the symbol of Tempus-a silver sword in flames on a blood-red field-on Guff’s surcoat. He was glad for the languor his spell had caused. Had he tried to assume material form and attack Maalthiir in his tent, Guff would have killed him in a trice with the war god’s powerful magic.

Instead Leifander floated, watching and waiting. He took care not to come too close to any of the men, in case they were sensitive to the unseen. Instead he hovered above them, circling on the roiling currents of hot air thrown off by the multitude of candles. Once, he drifted too close to one of the candelabras and found that open flame still had the power to burn him, even in this form. With a silent hiss of pain, he pulled his body away, leaving the candles guttering in his wake.

The slender officer-Nadire-had turned back to the makeshift table to pour himself more wine and happened to be looking in Leifander’s direction at the time. He frowned at the sudden breeze, but he returned his attention to the wine soon enough, and Leifander relaxed once more.

When Guff was finished with his prayer, Maalthiir began discussing plans for the morning’s march. None of it was of interest to Leifander, save for the fact that Maalthiir would be returning to Hillsfar the next day, leaving General Guff to command the Red Plumes. The news gave Leifander cause for hope. With the bulk of his soldiers there, Maalthiir would take only a bodyguard back to Hillsfar with him. There might be a chance yet to-

What was that Maalthiir had just said, in answer to one of Guff’s questions? Leifander’s attention, like what remained of his body, had been drifting. If he had heard correctly, Guff had asked a question about the poisonous mist that was blighting the forest and how his men might be protected against it. Maalthiir had told him not to worry.

“It has served its purpose,” Maalthiir added. “I’ll have Drakkar dispel it.”

Drakkar? The name caused Leifander to swirl in confusion. The evil wizard had given every impression that he was in the service of the mayor of Selgaunt, yet Maalthiir was speaking of him like an old and trusted friend. Was Drakkar one of the “allies” mentioned earlier?

Nadire, meanwhile, opened one of the crates and rummaged inside it. He drew out a long tube of rolled parchment, then interrupted the discussion of tactics with a faint cough.

“Excuse me, Lord Maalthiir, but has the terminus of the new road been fixed yet?”

Maalthiir gave him an annoyed look. “You know as well as I that it hasn’t.”

Nadire moved two of the candelabras closer to where Maalthiir sat, then opened the parchment-which turned out to be a map-and spread it at Maalthiir’s feet. Leifander, his curiosity piqued, drifted closer and recognized it as a map of the great forest by the names of the Dales that were written around the forest’s outskirts.

“Will it be here?” Nadire asked, pointing at a spot at the western edge of the great forest.

Leifander drifted closer. What was this road they were talking about? Were the humans of Hillsfar-supposed allies of the elves-actually talking about hacking yet another open wound through the ancient forest? Anger swirled within him.

Maalthiir made no answer, only stared at Nadire with a strange expression on his face. Guff, having drained his goblet, squinted at the map.

“You know as well as I do, Nadire, that the best place for a port is-”

The barrel-chested officer started to jab a thick finger into the map, but Nadire’s hand darted out fast as a striking snake, blocking him.

Nadire’s attention wasn’t on the officer, however, but on the candelabras. His gaze darted from one to another-and suddenly fixed on the candles directly behind Leifander. Too late, Leifander realized that their flickering-and his own curiosity-had betrayed him. He swept to the side but wasn’t quick enough. Nadire spoke a word in an ancient human tongue, and a bolt of crackling energy flew from his outstretched fingertips.

Leifander found himself in crow form once more, tumbling to the floor.