David Coe - The Sorcerer's Plague

Grinsa looked back at him. After a moment, he formed an image of fire, and then thrust it into the mind of the man's horse. The beast reared, nearly unseating the merchant, who clung desperately to the reins.

"Language of beasts," Grinsa said, facing forward again. "We both have it. You're welcome to make the attempt, but I assure you, you won't get far."

The merchants dropped back a few paces, falling silent once more. A short time later, though, the older merchant pulled abreast of Grinsa, eyeing him closely.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

"My name's Grinsa jal Arriet."

Torgan shook his head. "That's not a Fal'Borna name. I'm not even sure it's a Southlands name."

"It's not."

"It's true, then. What they said about you in the sept. You're from the Forelands?"

Grinsa glanced at him. After a moment he nodded.

"How did you come to be living with E'Menua's sept?"

"Just lucky, I suppose."

"They don't like you much. Obviously, Q'Daer doesn't. And I don't think the a'laq does, either."

"No, I don't imagine so."

"So why do you stay with them?"

"Is there something you want, Torgan?" Grinsa asked, his patience wearing thin. "Because I'm really in no mood to satisfy your curiosity right now."

"I want to know why you're doing this. My life is in your hands. So is Jasha's. I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," he went on, sounding anything but contrite, "but I'd like to know a bit about the man who may end up determining whether we live or die."

It seemed a fair point.

"I'm with them because I'm a Weaver," Grinsa said. "They want me to become part of their sept; my wife and I want to move on. If I can find the Mettai woman you've told them about, they'll let us go."

"That's it? This is some kind of test? A way of proving yourself?"

"It's a way of winning our freedom. That may not sound like much to you, but we've come a long way to make a life for ourselves in your land, and we're not willing to let the Fal'Borna destroy that for us."

The merchant didn't look pleased, but he nodded once.

"We're on the same side in this, Torgan. You may not think of me as the perfect ally, and certainly I had no desire to have my fate tied to yours, but we're in this together now, and we'd best make the most of it."

"Yeah," Torgan said, "all right. As you say, we haven't much choice in the matter." He looked Grinsa in the eye. "You argued for our lives when no one else would. I suppose that's worth something."

He dropped back again, allowing the other merchant to catch up with him.

Grinsa continued to ride alone, his eyes fixed on the north horizon. There were hills ahead to the west, and he knew that there were mountains to the north beyond the plain, but he couldn't see them for the rain and clouds. Eventually, Q'Daer halted and waited for the others to catch up with him. He pulled a pouch of food from one of the sacks tied to his saddle, took out a piece of what appeared to be dried meat, and handed the pouch to Grinsa.

"We're cold," Torgan said. "How much longer do you intend to ride in this weather?"

Q'Daer smiled, though there was no warmth in his pale eyes. "As long as this weather lasts," he said. "And then we'll have some other weather to ride in."

"We've a couple of hours left before sunset," Grinsa said, biting into a piece of meat. It was good-better than he'd expected. "We'll ride until it starts to get dark."

He handed the food to Torgan.

The merchant shook his head. "We should stop before then. We'll need time to set up some kind of shelter and find wood for a fire."

Of course. The longer this took, the longer the merchants would stay alive and the better their chances of making an escape. In this respect, Torgan and Grinsa were anything but allies.

"Leave that to us, Eandi," Q'Daer said. "Your only concern is finding that Mettai witch you've been going on about. And the sooner we do that, the better for all of us."

The merchants each took a piece of the meat, and then Torgan started to tuck the pouch into his travel sack.

"Give that to me, dark-eye."

Torgan glared at Q'Daer. "It's mine. I bought it in Stelpana."

"It may have been yours once, but now it belongs to the Fal'Borna." The Weaver held out a hand. "Give it here."

"And if I refuse?"

Torgan's mount reared, just as the young merchant's had earlier. This time though, the rider was thrown. Torgan landed heavily on the wet grass and lay on his back, too stunned to move. Q'Daer was off his mount an instant later, a knife in his hand. He strode to where the merchant lay, picked up the pouch of food, which had landed beside Torgan, and stared down at the man.

"Next time, I'll break your arm. You may have hopes of being spared, or perhaps you think you might escape. But until the a'laq tells me otherwise, you're a prisoner of the Fal'Borna, and you'll do exactly as I say." He reached into the pouch and pulled out another piece of meat. Then he smiled and placed it between his teeth. Looking up at Grinsa, he held out the food. "You want more?"

Grinsa shook his head.

Q'Daer shrugged and walked back to his mount. "On your horse, Eandi," he said, as he climbed back into his saddle.

Torgan struggled to his feet and tried to get on his horse. He couldn't. Finally, the other merchant dismounted and helped him up. Soon after, they were moving again. Once more, Q'Daer rode a fair distance ahead of the others.

"We can help each other."

Grinsa looked over and saw that Torgan was beside him again.

"It sounds as though you want to get away from them as much as we do. So let's work together."

"No," Grinsa said. "I left my wife and daughter with the Sept. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. I can't get away unless you help us find that woman. So that's what you're going to do."

"You told me before that we're allies," the merchant said sullenly. "But you sound like a Fal'Borna to me."

"Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe we're not allies. But I'm not Fal'Borna either. I'm alone in this." Grinsa knew as soon as he spoke the words that this was true. The merchants were concerned only with staying alive; Q'Daer was Fal'Borna. And he owed loyalty to no one except Cresenne and Bryntelle. "I have no allies," he said, as much to himself as to Torgan. "I have no need of them."

"You think you can do battle with the Fal'Borna by yourself?"

Grinsa shook his head. "I have no intention of battling the Fal'Borna. I'm going to war against a Mettai witch. And so are the two of you, so I'd get used to the idea. You want to live through this? Then you'll help me, you'll stop antagonizing Q'Daer, and you'll lead us to that old woman. Otherwise you're corpses. It's as simple as that."

Torgan glowered at him another moment, then fell back to join the other merchant.

"Serves me right for trying to talk sense to a white-hair," the Eandi muttered.

Grinsa didn't bother responding, or even looking back. His eyes were fixed on the young Fal'Borna Weaver riding ahead of him. Q'Daer was the real threat. The merchants might have been willing to risk an attempt at escape, but Grinsa knew that he and the Fal'Borna could stop them. The young Weaver, though, was another matter. The a'laq had told Grinsa that he hoped they'd succeed in finding the old woman. But what if he lied? What if he cared nothing for sparing the Eandi and stopping this Mettai witch, but remained determined to keep Grinsa in his sept? For all Grinsa knew, Q'Daer's purpose in riding with him was not to help, but rather to keep him from succeeding.

As if reading his thoughts, Q'Daer looked back at him and, after a moment's hesitation, gestured for Grinsa to ride forward.

"Come, Forelander. Join me. You don't need to guard the dark-eyes. They'll go nowhere without us."

Grinsa glanced back at Torgan, who was watching him closely. Then he kicked at his mount and joined the other Weaver. He even chanced a smile.