Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

"Then the fort was built. Is it still there?"

"Stronger each year. They call it Xurosh. Many Zyraii warriors have died trying to raze it – not only the T'lil, but the Alyr, the Fanke, the Buyul. Most especially the Olot, in whose territory it was built. They stood by Joren and fell next to the cream of the T'lil. Also, there is another trade route, from Palura to Nyriya, through the lands of the Olot, Hapt, Aikal, and Zainee tribes. The traders of Palura want to build another fort along there. If they succeed, Zyraii control of the desert may be lost. It is critical that we destroy Xurosh."

Alemar recalled the maps he had studied in his youth. The cause of strife was plain. The fertile Azu region had only one outlet to the wealth of the old kingdoms – through Zyraii.

"I wonder what I would do in Lonal's place," Alemar said sometime later. "I know what it means to live in a father's shadow."

Alemar dumped out a scorpion before he put on his boot. He stood, his shadow a long, thin patch of darkness extending toward the desiccated hills ahead. Shigmur and Zhanee were breaking down the simple camp they had made the evening before.

"See?" Shigmur said of the badlands. "Much better to hunt this terrain in the light. As it is we'll have to pray the oeikani don't twist their ankles."

Alemar agreed, though he regretted the delay. He had, however, been thankful for the rest. He had only recently recovered from the healing. Shigmur no doubt was worse off. He urged them to move quickly, and soon they were riding toward the three thin rock spires that dominated the nearby landscape.

Shigmur led them to the spring in a shady nullah on the south side of the spires. It was a permanent water hole, blessed with two full-grown whitedown trees, seldom seen away from the river. The trees had just begun to shed. Alemar watched the puffs settle on the surface of the pool, each tiny black seed carried windward on dozens of white, hairlike filaments. The seeds might travel a hundred leagues before finding a rooting place with enough water to sustain an adult tree.

"The spoor of a man," Shigmur announced as he stooped over a patch of mud. "Many traces, all made by the same pair of feet, over many days."

The three men checked for other signs while the oeikani filled their seemingly bottomless reservoirs with the spring water. They found remnants of old meals, charcoal, more footprints.

"Where is he?" Alemar demanded.

Shigmur shrugged. "Obviously his permanent camp is not here. We can wait. He may need to come for water soon."

"Let Zhanee stay. We can split up and search the area."

Shigmur bowed his head. "No. It's better we stay together."

Alemar paused. "You still don't trust me, do you?"

"Lonal would have my manhood if I lost you."

"I'm hardly going to run away with Yetem still back in the camp."

"I know. That's why Lonal let you come, with only two Po-no-pha to accompany you."

"What if I said I would duel you?" Alemar asked.

"I would laugh," Shigmur said.

Alemar popped his knuckles one by one. "All right, then – we stay together. But I can't just sit and wait. You know something of this area – where else would a man be likely to be found?"

Shigmur mulled it over while he filled his waterbag. "Well, I might look for an ordinary man along the game trails or at a salt flat. Since we are seeking a Hab-no-ken, perhaps we should climb the spires."

"Why?"

"Some of them…like to fly."

"They like to what?" Alemar was certain his Zyraii was deficient.

"They fly through the air – gliding like a vulture."

Alemar decided that the Po-no-pha was not joking. "Just how do they manage this?"

"I have only seen it once. They jump from a high place, like the spires, inside a cage of light wood. The cage hangs from a great cloth canopy. The winds carry them many miles."

Alemar looked at the imposing height of the nearest spire. "I hope I live to see this miracle," he announced.

He got his wish. Two hours later, as they negotiated the convoluted trail up the spire, Shigmur suddenly reined in and pointed skyward.

"Look!"

A brilliant triangle of green had separated from the upper reaches of the rock, passing far overhead without sound. From that distance, the man and the apparatus that supported him looked like dark specks on the cloth. It flew well.

"That must be him," Shigmur said.

Alemar's hope sank. The glider sped in moments over badland terrain that would take men on oeikani-back hours to cover. Yet he saw little choice but to follow.

"Come on," he said sourly, "let's try to find him when he lands."

They had lost him. Alemar was sure of it. They had only been able to track the glider for a few minutes, and it had taken half the day to reach the point where, as best they could determine, it had landed. Now the sun was descending, and despite searching through the heat of noon, they had found no trace of the contraption or the man who allegedly flew inside it.

They meandered down a shallow gorge, the clop of their oeikani hooves echoing repeatedly from one side to the other. While Shigmur and Zhanee continued on, Alemar stopped, overcome by the sensation that he was being watched.

He jerked his head suddenly toward a glut of boulders to his left. There, a man stood so still that, though he was in plain sight, he was difficult to see, in spite of the bright green robes he wore and the wide straw hat on his head. Even as Alemar stared, the figure seemed to fade in and out. Finally the young Cilendri noticed the pulse coming from his amulet.

Of course. The man was exerting a simple spell of concealment.

The man in green realized the ineffectiveness of his magic. It abruptly ceased. The stranger called out to the two Zyraii, who had not yet noticed that they had left their companion behind.

"May I help you?" he shouted.

Shigmur and Zhanee spun in their saddles. The war-second was the first to regain his composure. "Our apologies for disturbing you, holy one. We seek a boon."

"I am on Retreat," he said. The words weighed like stones on Alemar's hope. "What do you need of me?"

Shigmur nodded toward Alemar. "It is best for him to explain."

The Hab-no-ken shifted his glance. Alemar had not seen eyes with suchextra depth since the last time he had seen Obo. The man was about fifty, though that was hard to tell for certain. The desert wore out bodies early. If his green robes – the first of that color Alemar had seen in Zyraii – seemed incongruous, so did the kindness of his face. Alemar had never thought to see that emotion so firmly set in any Zyraii countenance. He was reminded of Rictane, Lord Dran's old stablemaster, who had worn that look at his own wake.

"My…son needs a healer. I don't know what to do for him. I need your help."

"You have a strange accent," the Hab-no-ken said. "Where are you from?"

"Cilendrodel."

"Yet you wear the robes of a Po-no-pha. What tribe?"

"The T'lil. T'krt clan."

"Our war-leader adopted him by rite ofniutap," Shigmur explained.

"Indeed?" The healer seemed increasingly intrigued. Alemar had the unnerving sensation that the man was looking not so much at him as through him. "This son – did you bring him from Cilendrodel?"

"He is also mine by virtue ofniutap."

"Yet when you speak of him, I see a woman in your mind, and a forest."

Alemar jumped.

"Be at peace, Po-no-pha," the healer said reassuringly. "We will have plenty of time to talk." He jumped nimbly down the boulders and lit on a spot between the mounted men. "My name is Gast. As I said, I am on Retreat, and ordinarily I would refuse your summons. But it is not every day I find a man who can see a Hab-no-ken when a Hab-no-ken does not wish to be seen. My rituals can be broken. Let us see what is wrong with this boy of yours."