David Coe: The Sorcerer's Plague

He was so intent on the questions swirling in his mind that he barely noticed when Lici dropped to the ground in front of him and began to claw at the earth with her hands. An instant later, though, he saw her knife flash across the back of her hand and he halted. He still clutched the bloodied earth in one hand and his knife in the other, and he began to whisper a spell, readying himself, unsure of what she intended to do. She glared back at him, and he realized that she was speaking, too.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought, earth to blades!" With these last shouted words, she threw her handful of mud at him. And before his eyes, the clod of dirt flew apart, becoming a swarm of tiny steel knives.

Besh had spoken most of his spell, and now, with hardly a thought, he did the only thing he could. "Power to thought, earth to stone!" He made a sharp motion with his hand, releasing the dirt as he did, so that it spread before him in a dark wheel.

Lici's tiny blades struck, but by then Besh's wheel had turned to stone. With a sound like the chiming of a hundred small bells, the knives bounced away harmlessly. Most of them, at least. Three got through his shield; two buried themselves in Besh's shoulder, the third hit him just below the chest.

The old woman spat a curse and grabbed for more dirt. Besh stooped and did the same, ignoring the agony in his shoulder. Instead of cutting his hand again, he pulled one of the small knives from his flesh and wiped the blood on the soil in his hand.

"Blood to earth, life to power, power to thought," they said together, eyeing one another.

Both of them hesitated. He wanted to stop her, to keep her right where she was so that he could question her further. She wanted him dead. He couldn't attempt any spell without leaving himself open to her attack. She seemed to sense this, because a moment later she was grinning like some ghoul in the gathering gloom.

"Earth to fire!" she shouted suddenly, hurling the dirt at him.

Bright, angry flames burst from her hand, as if she were the goddess Eilidh herself. Besh froze, held fast by his terror, knowing he had no answer for this magic. At the last moment, he threw himself down and to the side. Much of Lici's fire passed over him, but not all. Seeing that his sleeve and trouser leg were ablaze, he batted at the flames, desperately trying to extinguish them, knowing that she might well be readying herself to cast yet another spell.

When at last the flames were out, he climbed warily to his feet. Lici was watching him still, her eyes bright and wide. Her fist was clenched again and fresh blood flowed from the back of her hand.

Realizing that he still held his own dirt, and that he was still in mid- spell, Besh wasted no time.

"Earth to swarm!" he cried out, throwing the dirt.

Immediately, Lici was beset by a host of yellow and black hornets. Just as he had hoped, she swatted at them, the dirt and her knife falling to the ground. She screamed and grabbed her blade again before scrambling to her feet and fleeing. Besh started after her, ducking past the hornets as he did.

As she ran, Lici tried to bend and scoop up some dirt, but she stumbled, righted herself, and ran on without managing to get any.

Besh didn't bother with more magic and so closed the distance between them. At last, he caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

She spun toward him, the knife flashing by his face, just narrowly missing his eye. Suddenly his cheek was burning with pain and he could feel blood flowing down over his jaw and neck.

Seeing what she had done, Lici stopped struggling to break free of his grip. She just gaped at him, her eyes wide again.

"You were speaking of the Y'Qatt, weren't you?" Besh demanded, breathing hard. "Before. When you spoke of the baskets, of finding a way. That's who you meant. The Y'Qatt."

She nodded.

He didn't attempt to stanch the flow of blood. Lici seemed transfixed by what she had done, and Besh wanted her to remain so.

"You put a spell on your baskets, one that would make them sick. Is that right?"

"I can't talk about this," she said, her eyes still riveted on the wound she had dealt him.

"Yes, you can. I know what they did to you. I've been… Sylpa told me."

Again she shifted her gaze, meeting his. "You've spoken to Sylpa?"

"She told me what happened. How the Y'Qatt wouldn't help you. How they even threatened to kill you if you wouldn't leave their village. That's why you did it, isn't it?"

Her expression hardened. "She said she wouldn't tell anyone! She promised!"

"She was concerned for you. She sent me to find you."

"She had no-" Lici looked past him, her eyes narrowing again, her grip on the knife tightening. "Who's that?"

Besh glanced back and saw Sirj a short distance off, watching them, his blade drawn as well.

"He's a friend." He faced her again. "Just as I am. Believe it or not, Lici, I am your friend. I want to help you. But you have to stop killing them."

Abruptly, she was crying, tears streaming down her face, her wails echoing through the wood.

"I didn't want this!" she screamed. "He said he was going to the Y'Qatt, but he lied to me! He lied! He lied! He lied! He lied! He lied! He lied!"

"Who lied to you, Lici?"

"He's taking them to the Fal'Borna!"

And suddenly, finally, Besh understood. He grabbed both of her shoulders. She didn't fight him this time. Not at all.

"Do you mean to tell me that there's a peddler out there who's taking your baskets into Qirsi land?"

The word came out as soft as a dying breath. "Yes."

"Blood and bone."

"What is it?" Sirj asked, walking toward them.

Lici dropped to the ground, sobbing still, muttering once more. "She's been spreading the pestilence with her baskets. She puts a spell on them, and then probably sells them in the marketplace or trades them with merchants. That's how she's killing the Y'Qatt."

Sirj stared down at the woman, disgust and fear chasing one another across his face. "She's a demon," he whispered.

"It's worse than that. She says that now a peddler is taking her baskets into Fal'Borna land."

"Gods save us all! How many?"

"A good question." Besh squatted down beside the woman. "Lici, how many baskets does he have?"

She didn't answer. Besh wasn't even certain that she had heard him.

"Lici?" he said again. But then he shook his head and stood once more. "I'm not even certain it matters," he said quietly. "One is too many. Ten could kill thousands."

"So we have to find him."

Besh looked at him and nodded. "I agree."

"And what about her?"

What about her, indeed. Besh had told Pyav that he could kill her if that was the only way to stop her. But now, seeing her for what she was- crazed and pathetic-he no longer believed that he could bring himself to go so far. "I don't know."

Sirj eyed the cut on Besh's face. "She did that to you?"

"Yes."

The younger man nodded toward the tiny blades jutting from his shoulder and body. "And those?"

"You think I put them there myself?" Besh demanded.

Sirj ignored him. "Those wounds need to be cleaned and healed." "I'm not good at healing magic."

"I am."

Besh hesitated.

"You can't travel far with those wounds," Sirj said, his voice gentle, as if he were speaking to a child.

At last the old man nodded. They moved off a short distance and Besh sat on the ground, all the while keeping watch on Lici. Sirj turned his attention first to the witch's conjured blades. The one that remained in Besh's shoulder came free easily, but the other had struck between two ribs. As Sirj pulled it out Besh winced, inhaling sharply through his teeth.

"I'm sorry."

The old man just shook his head. He pulled his shirt off, and allowed Sirj to work his magic. Besh continued to watch the old woman, but she didn't move, or even look at them. It seemed she had spent all her power and passion in their brief battle. Besh knew just how she felt.