Джейн Рэйб - Red Magic

Determined not to wait for any undead reinforcements or to take time to assess his friends’ conditions, Wynter picked up the paralyzed Galvin and slung him across his back. He cradled Brenna in his arms and carried the pair of them and their belongings out of the defiled area and into the abandoned barn. If guards looking for escaped slaves chanced upon the trio, Wynter thought, the Aglarond council would have to contact more Harpers to continue the spying mission.

Inside the dilapidated barn, the centaur placed the sorceress near a large mound of straw, laying her down gently near the barn wall and placing her head on some hay. Watching her closely, Wynter saw her chest rise and fail shallowly. Tears fell from his angular face, and his hands trembled. Wynter didn’t want Brenna and Galvin to die. Aside from losing his friends, their deaths would leave him alone in a country he considered one step removed from hell.

The centaur laid Galvin near her and cringed when he saw how irregularly the druid was breathing. Wynter pulled off the druid’s tunic so he could clean the gashes left by the undead. Galvin’s arms had been raked by the claws of the creature, and the area around the red welts was swelling. Rummaging through the druid’s satchel, the centaur found some of the herbs Galvin had used on his shoulder earlier. The centaur was uncertain how to apply them, so he crumbled them in his fingers and laid them across the gashes.

Next he tended to Brenna. Wynter tore off a strip from the hem of her dress and soaked it with water from his waterskin. Kneeling awkwardly, he cleaned the blood from her cheek where the ghoul had clawed her. The scratch marks weren’t deep, but they marred her pretty face.

The centaur wore a circular path in the dirt as he trotted around the unmoving forms of Galvin and Brenna. Through a gaping hole in the barn’s roof, the stars shone brightly, illuminating the sheen of sweat on the centaur’s back. Wynter feared the undead would return, or perhaps a patrol of a worse kind would find them. His friends’ long hair would make them look like escaped slaves, so if they were caught here they would be killed or put on a slave plantation, never to see Aglarond again.

Wynter shivered and glanced about the barn. There were too many shadows to make out everything, but he noted a few piles of moldy straw, damp because the roof provided little shelter from the rain. One toward the back of the barn was large enough to hide Brenna and Galvin behind it in the event he heard someone approaching the barn. He didn’t want to move them unless he felt he had to. It looked like the barn had had a loft at one time. Now it was completely hollow inside, and rotted boards lay along the walls and near the center of the floor to outline where a second story used to be.

The entire structure tilted a little to the east, and Wynter suspected it wouldn’t survive a heavy windstorm. The dirty hay inside smelled musty and was coated with little bits of fur. It probably served as a haven for mice and other rodents. A few rusted farm implements were scattered along the western wall—rakes, a hoe, bits of tack. He took note of those that might serve as weapons.

The centaur continued to guard his friends until daylight filtered in through the roof and he could no longer stay awake. Standing between the barn doors and the prone druid and sorceress, Wynter slept on his feet. He awoke late in the afternoon to find Galvin and Brenna still unmoving. Wynter peered out one of the larger cracks at the front of the barn. In the distance, he saw the orchards and spied a few slaves moving among the trees, picking fruit. The centaur was careful not to touch the wood of the barn. The structure appeared so old and rotted that he feared it could easily fall over.

Wynter kept his vigil, dosing on and off until well after midnight, when Galvin finally shook his paralysis. The gashes on his arms smarted, but they were slightly healed by Wynter’s efforts.

“How … how long has it been?” Galvin asked, sitting up and glancing about the barn. “I remember … Brenna! Was she killed?” The druid panicked and brought himself quickly to his feet.

“She’s still alive—barely, I think,” Wynter replied. “She was clawed, too. She’s paralyzed.”

Galvin rushed to the enchantress’s side and moved the fingertips of his right hand over her scratched face. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, an old druidic prayer taught to him as a youth. He rarely used healing magic, which took a great deal of concentration—something he usually lacked when he himself was injured. The druid preferred to rely on herbs and natural mixtures. But he had none of the latter handy, so he continued the prayer. After several minutes, Brenna’s breathing began to deepen, although she still remained unconscious. The scratches on her face began to heal, and Galvin rose.

“She’ll be all right,” he stated simply, his voice showing his relief. He began to examine his surroundings and noticed that Wynter looked different somehow. Then he realized why—the hair on the centaur’s head was short, not more than an inch long. His long curls and braid lay in a pile on the barn floor.

“What did you do?” Galvin pointed at the centaur’s head.

“We need to look like Thayvians, remember?”

Brenna finally came to several hours later. Sunlight streamed in where planks of wood had rotted away in the walls and through the hole in the center of the roof. The rays warmed her face. She slowly sat up, then pulled herself to her knees.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s decidedly unlucky sharing a camp with the two of you,” Wynter said dryly. Despite the tone, he was thankful his companions were for the most part uninjured. He tossed the enchantress her satchels.

“I left Elwin behind in the clearing,” the centaur added hesitantly. “There wasn’t much left of him.”

“Why did the undead attack us?” Brenna didn’t understand. “They were horrid. Gods, but I feel for the people who live in this country.”

“The ghouls must have heard us talking. That attracted them,” Wynter said flatly, eyeing her and Galvin. “We were none too quiet.”

“They were quiet, though,” Galvin added.

“You could never have heard them approaching anyway,” the centaur offered. “Undead only make noise when they want to.” He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. “You’ve got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that.”

A look of horror crossed her face. “What—what do you mean?”

“I mean you should cut it, shave it off,” the centaur instructed. “You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you’ve got another pretty dress.” He extended the shears to her. “These’ll take off most your hair. Galvin’s scimitar can take care of the rest.”

When the sorceress didn’t take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.

The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna’s curls.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur’s cropped hair. “Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven’t cut my hair in ten years.”

The druid smiled. “I’ll pose as your slave.”

“You mean you’re not cutting your hair?” she said angrily.

“Slaves have long hair.”

“Listen,” Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. “You’d make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You’ve got the bearing, the social graces.”

The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.