Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

A simple spell, but it would mask his presence. His prey would have to consciously know what to do to circumvent it. Hadradril headed back to his original ambush point.

The itch faded as Toren and his companions approached the road, then vanished altogether. He frowned. He did not trust the sudden way it had stopped. It seemed too convenient.

Yet, perhaps they had fooled whoever threatened them, and were now out of danger. When they reached the road, Geim decided they should continue in their original direction. Toren reluctantly agreed. The day waned; they could not remain indecisive.

The route grew rougher, the ruts of spring rains not yet worn down in this rarely travelled region. In one place a tree had fallen over part of the road. Cover abounded on either side-too much. Toren keened his extra sense, and felt nothing.

Late in the afternoon, as they rose over a small hillock, he assembled his blowgun and laid it across his thighs.

At the base of the hillock, the feeling came on him like fire. He twisted.

An arrow grazed his side.

Only then could he sense how magic had been foiling his ability. Out of a thicket emerged a gaunt figure in embroidered silk riding gear, bow in hand, a plain grey cloak on his shoulders.

Geim threw his net. It raced straight toward Hadradril. The wizard barely had time to drop his bow before he was felled.

Toren, Deena, and Geim jumped out of their saddles, the latter drawing his sword as he dropped. Toren moved to approach the thicket from the left, Geim from the right, while Deena took the reins of the oeikani.

The men made it four or five steps. Then, no matter how hard they struggled, their feet would not leave the road. They were anchored. Toren noticed that the dust on which they stood was strangely colored.

"Just a little trick I learned in my apprentice days," the wizard said blithely, and stood up. He twirled the net in front of him. "Now this is a clever toy. I should make one of my own some time."

Despite his banter, the wizard could not conceal his spellcasting from Toren. A waver in the air led from Hadradril to the colored dust. Not only did his feet refuse to budge, but his limbs grew leaden and useless. Deena, who had been trying to reach the bow in her saddle, lowered her arm. Geim's sword point dropped. Toren's hand, which had been reaching toward the pouch of darts on his belt, stopped.

Hadradril picked up his bow and nocked a fresh arrow. He chuckled. "That's better," he said, and aimed at the modhiv.

He drew back the bowstring with tortoiselike slowness. Toren frowned at the snail's pace of the wizard's movements, then the light of realization dawned. The immobilization spell consumed nearly all the sorcerer's power and concentration. Hadradril could not afford to devote much attention to his physical movements.

The filament of energy binding Toren's arms resembled a rope. And if he disturbed the knot-right there-just so…

Suddenly the paralysis disappeared. He loaded a dart, lifted his blowgun, and fired.

The missile struck Hadradril in the chest. He cried out, released the arrow, clutched his chest, dropped the bow. The shaft came at Toren too fast for him to dodge it, but the wizard's aim had been skewed just enough. The point sliced the edge of one of his sleeves and continued past.

"Quick!" Geim shouted. "Get him!"

Geim charged forward and slashed at Hadradril's neck. The sword stopped a finger's breadth away from the skin. Sparks scattered in every direction. Undaunted, Geim continued to hack.

For Toren's eyes, the ward radiated angry, red, resistant tones. He considered trying to negate it, but had no idea how. Deena shoved a sword into his hand. Geim had the right idea-beat at the barrier with all their might. Keep Hadradril occupied, and the poison would do the rest.

Toren had never used a sword, but there was no need for finesse. He chopped at the wizard's legs, while Geim swung at the upper body. Deena, armed with a knife, stood poised to assist, should there be room for her.

Hadradril staggered. He tugged the dart from his chest, but the pain only intensified. He had underestimated his victim. His life was dribbling away.

Take him with me, was his foremost thought. But it was all he could do to maintain the ward. The venom spread, dulling his senses. He knew no sorcery to counteract it. Hands trembling, he reached back to his quiver, bent down and retrieved his bow. One of the blades had nearly cut through the ward. He winced. He had to be careful, move very slowly.

He drew back the arrow, pointed it at the adept, and let go. Thanks to his sluggish movement, the target anticipated him and simply stepped out of the way.

He withdrew another arrow. The result was the same.

Hadradril moaned. His only consolation was that the other sorcerers of the Ril would not see him fall. He shuddered, knees threatening to buckle. His chest burned. Spots flickered in front of his eyes.

Dying. Only one chance, one remote chance, to fulfill his mission. Once he dropped the ward, he could cast the spell in an instant.

Each impact sent numbing tingles up the sword. The weapon threatened to fall out of Toren's grip. Tiny, brief fires flickered in the twigs at their feet, ignited by the sparks.

Hadradril emitted a weak, strangled cry, perhaps a word. The ward disintegrated with a sudden snap of wind.

Geim chopped off the wizard's head.

Toren set down his sword, suddenly very weary. The head rolled to a stop. The body crumpled to the ground. Geim wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped back. "You're good with that blowgun," he told Toren.

They heard an odd hissing. Geim stared in outrage as his sword began to sizzle and dissolve. Likewise, smoke rose from the mulch near both parts of the wizard's neck, and from Toren's vest, which had been splattered during the decapitation.

"Take it off!" Deena shouted at Toren. The modhiv was already moving. He threw the vest off just before the fabric burned through.

"The bastard!" Geim growled. "He put a spell on his blood. This was my best blade." He shook it, wiped it on the corpse's clothing, but the metal still bubbled. The fine polished edges warped into ragged, rusted contours.

A foul odor rose from the discarded piece of clothing. Toren watched it being destroyed with a pensive stare.

"Oh, well," Deena said. "You didn't like that vest, anyway."

Regrettably the acid blood was having no effect on the sorcerer's own flesh, though the necklace that had been around his neck fumed and decomposed.

Toren caught his breath. He pointed out the necklace, lying in the twigs near the head. Geim lifted it up with the tip of his afflicted sword. It possessed a single blue gem. Evidently it was still able to draw a small amount of energy from the dead man, because it pulsed with faint but rapid flashes. Geim scowled, and held the jewel closer to Toren.

The flashes sped up, until they were nearly a constant glow. When Geim removed the gem from Toren's immediate vicinity, the flashes slowed down.

"Like Ivayer's bracelet," Toren said.

"A talisman of pursuit," Geim said. "This was no random attack. He was looking for you."

ALEMAR DREAMED OF THE Eastern Deserts. He wandered a phantom landscape of scoured, eroded channels, searching for water, and found only barren sand and ossified layers of salt. The voice of his teacher, Gast, echoed from stratified, sun-bleached cliffsides, warning him that he had let his flasks run low, that unless he filled them soon, he would perish of thirst. But though he investigated every spring and river bed, his throat remained parched. The oases had been drained.

He awoke with a foul, bilious aftertaste at the back of his throat. His head swam, unable to still the chaotic remnants of his dreams. With extreme effort, he focussed on the walls of his grandfather's cottage: tightly knit logs, mortared with clay. A griddle sizzled as Wynneth dropped a bit of pork fat onto it. She sorted through a clutch of brush hen's eggs. Cosufier snored in the upper bunk.