The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (10 page)

Billigan and two workers were standing beside the tent
entrance. The workers had their picks hanging loosely over their shoulders, and
their hands tightened on them as Angus approached. He stopped in front of them
and said, “No need for guards tonight. Their horses scattered. It will take
them at least until dawn to catch them.”

The workers looked relieved and were about to turn back into
the tent when Billigan shook his head. “No sense in taking chances,” he said.

 “They’re gone for now,” Angus countered as he stepped
between them and opened the tent flap. He paused and added, “I don’t know if
they’ll be back again or not, but they aren’t looking for a confrontation. If
they were, they would have attacked when they had the element of surprise on
their side. We may as well get some sleep.”

Angus let the flap fall and walked back to his corner. He
set his pack down and lay with his head resting against it. Within a few moments,
he felt sleep approaching, and just before he was overtaken by it, he wondered
how he had lost control of the spell. What had caused his brief, almost deadly
lapse of concentration? It was almost as if his right hand had acted of its own
accord….

14

The muffled, rhythmic, distant
CHNK-nk
of metal on
stone.

The sloshing of water being vigorously stirred.

A kink in his neck—noticeable, distracting, but not overly
painful.

His hand was throbbing, a dull, soft throb that was neither
urgent nor negligible.

The warm, inviting aroma of baking bread.

His stomach grumbled.

There was a thick, nauseating film lining his cheeks, teeth,
and tongue.

He had to pee.

Angus opened his eyes to a narrow, patient slit and let the
dim light from the lamps filter into his consciousness. It was subdued, casting
mottled patches of soft light and long, fluttery shadows on the tent walls.

He took a slow, deep breath, savoring the aroma of the bread
as it tickled his salivary glands to life. The spit was a welcome change to the
foul-tasting, gunk clinging to his tongue and teeth.

He sighed, stretched—winced as his neck muscles
protested—and sat up. The tent was nearly deserted; only the boy was there,
scrubbing away at the workers’ tunics and trousers.
They must have two sets
,
Angus thought, not really caring.
Maybe I should wash mine?

Angus nodded to himself and carefully removed the black
wizard’s robe. He shook it and all of the dust and dirt on it dropped easily to
the ground. He examined it closely (it looked as clean as the first day he’d
gotten it), folded it, and set it on his backpack. His removed his boots and
set them next to his backpack. Then he began removing the items secreted in his
reinforced leather tunic, placing the picks, garrotes, tiny vials, and whatnot
into his boots. Only as he was putting the last item into his boot—a small
key—did he realize he had no idea where any of these items had come from or,
for that matter, how he knew they were there. And the key….

It was a complex key, one with a prong curved like a
misshapen sickle facing away from the handle, jutting out from just behind the
sharp point of the main prong. On the top, there was a series of three notches,
each slightly askew from the vertical.
What is this key for? What does it
open?
The right half of his mouth tilted upward as the left dipped down.

He eventually shrugged, dropped the key into his boot with
the rest of the things, and removed his tunic and under-tunic. The stench was
overwhelming, familiar and not-quite-right. But it only lasted a few seconds
before his nose adjusted to it. He finished stripping, finding a few more items
hidden in the trousers, and carried his clothes over to the boy.

“What do they call you?” Angus asked.

The boy shrugged. “Whatever they want,” he said. “Sometimes
they even use my name. It’s Dirdl.”

“Well, Dirdl,” Angus said. “Would you mind washing these
while I bathe?”

The boy used a short oar-shaped piece of wood to fish out
the worker’s trousers he was scrubbing, and then used it to skim away the grit
floating on the surface. When he finished, he held out his hands and Angus gave
them to him.

“What time of day is it?” Angus asked.

“Nearing midday,” he said.

Angus nodded. “Any sign of our visitors from last night?”

“None,” Dirdl said. “Unless they’re out there right now.”

“All right, Dirdl,” Angus said. “Don’t scrub too much on the
leather. When you finish with them, put them on the table.”

“We have a line strung up outside,” Dirdl said as he put
Angus’s undergarments in the barrel and began twisting them around the oar.

“No need for that,” Angus said, smiling. “I’ll dry them
myself.”

Dirdl nodded and went back to work as Angus moved to the
tent flap and stepped outside. The workers were clambering over the rock, their
mallets and chisels clattering away in a well-conducted ballet. The sun was
near its zenith, and it was warm, as warm as it got in late summer, and there
was a brisk, moist wind hinting of a storm. There were clouds to the west over
the mountains, and Angus wondered if it was going to rain. If so, it might be
wise to stay with the workmen another day….

He went to the down-slope side of the road to urinate,
shaking his head at the extensive scorch marks from his miscast spell.
Wasteful
,
he thought as his dark yellow stream shot outward with a vigor that nearly
surprised him.
I’ll have to prime myself before I leave.
When he
finished, he went back inside the tent and made his way to the wash barrel.
Once he began scrubbing, he was surprised by how much dirt had accumulated on
his skin, and by the time he had finished washing, Dirdl had already put his
wet clothes in a pile on the table. Now he was taking the loaves of bread from
the brazier.

Angus went to the table and focused on the magic only long
enough to tweak a light red strand and make a single long, looping slipknot
with it. He wrapped the knot around the clothes, as if he were tying up a horse
to a stable gate, and slowly pulled the loop tight. As it dwindled, its
energies escaped in a carefully controlled minor burst of warmth, just hot
enough to cause a fog-like mist to sizzle up from the wet clothes. By the time
he was finished, they were dry enough to put on, and he dressed quickly.
I
should have dried my boots this way,
he thought,
instead of letting my
feet get infected.
He returned to his boots, robe, and backpack; picked
them up; and carried them to the table.

He dumped the items out of his boot and reached for the
first one. He picked it up and hesitated.
Where do they go?
he wondered,
holding a small vial of dark green fluid in his left hand.
What is this,
anyway?
Then he shrugged, dropped it in his right hand, and quickly slipped
it into a small pouch just below his elbow. He barely paid attention as he
efficiently replaced the other items and promptly forgot about them.

He slipped his boots on, stretched—his neck barely
twinged—and opened his backpack. He paused to unwind the bandage from his hand
and looked at the burns. They were almost fully healed!
No sense using the
ointment,
he thought, setting the bandage aside and flexing his hand. He
still had full mobility, though his flexibility was a bit stiff. In time….

He sorted through his scrolls and selected two of them. He
set them on the table and collected one of the lamps. As he returned with it,
he broke off a sizeable chunk of bread from one of the fresh loaves. By the
time he finished the bread and washed it down with a half flagon of beer, he
had the lamp’s wick fully extended to provide the most intense flame.

“Dirdl,” he called.

“Yes?” the boy promptly replied.

“I must not be interrupted,” he said. “Is that clear?”

Dirdl nodded.

“Good,” Angus said, turning away and beginning the
preparations for priming himself to receive the imprint of the spell from the
scroll. It was a familiar spell, one he knew well. Still, he had to reinforce
his memory to make sure he had both his body and mind receptive to the magic.
He steadied his breathing and heartbeat, slowing them significantly in the
process, and then cleared his mind of everything around him. The sights, the
sounds, the smells—all of them disappeared from his awareness as he went
through the process Voltari had taught him. When he reached the trancelike
state, he brought the magic within himself into focus and quickly aligned it
for the familiar spell, pleased to note how quickly the strands followed his
direction. It wouldn’t be long before he wouldn’t even have to be in a full
trance to prime himself. Then he turned to the second scroll.

It was a difficult spell. The strands were interwoven in a
complex, ever-changing pattern, and he had to go deep within himself to connect
with it, to manipulate it, to pave the way for the magic. The complexity was at
the limit of his ability, and it would take all of his mental strength to prime
it properly. It was a time-consuming process, but without it, the spell would
be ruined—or worse; it would backfire.

When he was satisfied that he was once again in full control
of the magic within him, he turned outward, shifting his awareness to the
scroll’s pattern of knots and the runes mixed in among them. He followed the
runes directions and gradually shifted his internal framework to match the one
described in the scroll. Minutes passed before he reached synchronicity and was
ready to memorize the knots themselves. It was the most vulnerable, sensitive
point of the priming process, and he had only memorized a few knots when the
workmen entered. They were laughing, talking, clapping each other, but Angus
was completely absorbed in the priming and set the intrusion aside. He had to;
if he lost control now….

Dirdl tried to intervene, but they pushed him aside and
moved to the table, filling flagons with beer and grabbing loaves of bread.

Angus ignored them, turned to the next knot. It was a simple
one, the kind that could easily be taken for granted….

Billigan cried out a greeting and sat down across from
Angus.

The next knot was a complex one, and he almost made a
mistake….

Billigan was chattering, going on and on about a wounded
hand. Was it his? It didn’t matter; he needed to concentrate. Billigan paused,
clearly expecting a reply of some sort.

Two more knots left….

Billigan repeated something he had just said, this time more
urgently.

The last knot was crucial. It indicated how to conclude the
spell, how to restrain the power unleashed in the spell and let its threads
return to their natural state….

Billigan reached out, put his hand on the scroll. It
crinkled as he gripped it too tightly. He pushed it unceremoniously down,
trying to force Angus to look at him. “Angus?”

Angus shuddered, lost contact with the magic within
himself….

He blinked rapidly….

The spell….

“Are you all right?” Billigan asked.

Angus took a slow, deep breath. The muscles along his jaw
threatened to snap as the narrow slits of his eyes settled on Billigan’s
sweaty, dirty hand gripping his scroll. When he lifted his gaze to meet
Billigan’s, all he saw was a soft, blurry outline of a face. He blinked once
and noted how odd Billigan’s mouth looked when it was open, as if the teeth
were trying to swallow the emptiness beside them. He blinked again, lifting his
gaze up a few inches, meeting the wide-eyed fear in his companion’s eyes.

The scroll rustled as Billigan’s hand shook. He let go, and
his arm snapped backward.

Angus carefully smoothed the intruding wrinkles, tried to
erase the stains, and then rolled up the scroll. He turned to Dirdl and said,
his voice a sinister whisper, “I told you no intrusions.”

Dirdl wrung his hands together. “I t-t-tried—” he stuttered.
“They—”

Billigan closed his mouth, gulped. He took a breath,
steadied himself somewhat, and said, “Don’t blame Dirdl. I didn’t listen to
him.”

Angus turned his attention back to Billigan and said, “It
can be deadly to interrupt a wizard when he is in that state.”

Billigan nodded. “My apologies, Mage,” he said. “I was
unaware….”

Angus put the two scrolls in his backpack. “I assume you
have a reason for the intrusion.”

Billigan exhaled, half-smiled, and nodded vigorously.
“They’re back.”

“Who?” Angus asked.

“Them that was here last night,” Billigan replied. “The
Banner of the Wounded Hand.”

Angus frowned. “Oh?”

Billigan nodded again. “They’re outside,” he continued.
“They request an audience with you.”

Audience?
Angus laughed, feeling the tension lifting
from his shoulders as if he were shedding a pair of monstrous, crumpled butterfly
wings.

The workmen grew quiet, watched him.

Dirdl looked as if he were about to jump into the laundry
barrel.

Billigan chuckled and fidgeted, as if he wasn’t sure which
he should do.

When his laughter dwindled to inconsistent chuckling, Angus
stood up, draped his backpack over his shoulders, and said, “Well then
Billigan, it is time we parted company. Thank you for the hospitality of your
tent.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked rapidly
toward the tent flap, thinking about that last knot and wondering if it ended
in an inward or outward loop. It would do no good to look at the scroll to find
out; the whole sequence had to be primed without interruption….

1

Angus stepped through the tent flap and was buffeted by a
stiff, chill breeze coming from the mountains to the west. He turned that way
and studied the clouds scattered across the horizon.
Rain?
he wondered.
Another
day in the tent?
The sun was just past its zenith, though, and there was
plenty of time to find shelter before the storm arrived.
If
a storm
arrived; the heavy rain fell on the west side of the mountains.

Off to the side, patches of scorched ground were ringed by
brittle, dry grass. If his aim had been lower or the workmen less efficient,
much of the hillside would have been burned.

The boulder was lower than it had been the day before, and
the stacks of cobblestones were a bit higher. Several men sat atop horses next
to it, and one edged forward. It was Giorge.

“Hail Wizard,” he called. “Is it safe to approach?”

Angus half-smiled and thought about saying no, but waved him
forward. As he neared, Angus asked, “What is it, Giorge?”

Giorge trotted to a stop a few yards from him, turned his
horse sideways, and leaned toward Angus. “You aren’t going to try to kill me
again, are you? That fire last night was a bit too close for my liking. I think
it even singed my eyebrows.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider sneaking up on wizards,”
Angus said, noting the thin black eyebrows were perfectly fine. His cloak was
turned with the light gray inside and the black outside, but neither would
provide much concealment in this rocky terrain.

Giorge grinned, the white of his teeth punctuating the brown
of his skin. “No sneaking this time!”

“Indeed,” Angus agreed. “What of your friends?”

“Would you like to meet them?” Giorge asked. “They are
anxious to meet you.”

“Why?” Angus asked.

Giorge moved his horse to the side and pointed at a slumped
form draped over one of the horses. “We need a wizard,” he said. “Ours is
dead.”

“Oh?” Angus prompted.

Giorge shook his head. “Poor old Teffles. He ran the wrong
way.”

Angus frowned, wondering what he meant and not sure if he
cared to know. “Billigan called you the ‘Banner of the Wounded Hand.’”

Giorge grinned and perched like a chicken strutting in his
saddle. “That’s us, all right.”

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

“What is the Banner of the Wounded Hand?”

“That’s us,” Giorge said. “Ortis, Hobart, and me.”

Angus looked at the rest of the group—there were four, three
of whom looked remarkably similar to each other even at a distance. “Who are
the other two?” he asked.

“Other two?” Giorge repeated, looking back.

“There are five of you, but you named only three,” Angus
said. “Who are the other two members of your little group?”

“Our
Banner
,” Giorge corrected. “We are officially
sanctioned and registered within the Kingdom of Tyr.”

“Banner, then,” Angus said. “Who are the other two?”

“Why don’t I bring them forward so you can meet them?”

“All right,” Angus said, and Giorge quickly waved the others
closer. “We can talk while we walk.”

“It’s better if we ride,” Giorge said. “We have an extra
horse you can use.”

Angus frowned, wondering if he knew how to ride a horse.
“Tell me more about this banner,” he said, trying to cover up his uncertainty.
“What is it, really?”

“Well,” Giorge said. “It would be better to ask Hobart. He’s
the one who started it.”

As the riders neared, Angus assessed them. One was a stocky,
barrel-chested fellow almost completely concealed beneath the bulk of his
dented, grass-stained plate armor. His wooden shield was a stark contrast to
the metal plates, and the helm had clearly seen better days. The hilt of a
sword stuck up over his left shoulder, the massive grip suggesting a sizeable
blade. An axe dangled from a strap wrapped around the saddle horn, resting
against the shoulder of his steed—a large black mare with fierce, battle-worn
eyes. When he reined in his horse and removed his helmet, a tangled mass of
wavy, tallow-textured hair cascaded over his shoulders and the sun glinted off
the sweat lining his receding hairline. His moustache was thick and angry, and
he had long sideburns, but his chin was free of even the barest hint of
stubble. He leveled his walnut-colored eyes at Angus and nodded. “Well met,” he
said.

Angus nodded in reply and turned to study the man next to
him. He was of average build but looked almost dwarf-like next to the
exaggerated bulk of the first man’s armor. He wore a gray-green tunic and
breeches, and his brown leather boots were flexible, soft-soled, the kind that
would fall quietly on brittle dry leaves. He held a bow loosely in his right
hand, and a quiver of arrows was slung over his left shoulder. His left hand
rested near—but not on—the hilt of a short, curved knife. He wore a brown
leather cloak, and when his horse settled, he lifted the hood and let it fall
backward. His skin was pale, like frothy fresh milk, and it contrasted wildly
with the short-cropped black hair and the mottled gray of his steed. But what
was most striking were his eyes: they had orange-tinted irises and the pupils
were narrow, vertical slits—like a cat’s. Those eyes met his with an implacable
gaze that suggested controlled violence tempered by deep wisdom, a kind of
reserved preparedness for action.

“Well met,” the next man said, his voice a soft tenor that
seemed to snap across the gap between them. Angus turned to him, and his mouth
slipped open as a soft gasp escaped through his lips. The third man was the
spitting image of the second man, even down to the peculiar orange eyes.
Identical
Twins!
The man smiled—a thin, knowing smile with the cream of his teeth
peeking through the narrow slit made by his lips—and the last man chuckled.

Angus frowned, turned, and blinked rapidly.
Triplets?
He had heard of them, of course, but they were rare.
With orange eyes?

“I am Ortis,” they said in unison. There was no harmony or
discord when they spoke together; their tone, their cadence, their words were
perfectly timed, as if a single voice was approaching him from different
directions. But it had none of the qualities of an echo.

“And I,” the armor clad one said, “am Hobart.”

“Angus,” Ortis said, ushering a saddled horse around the
group. “Would you mind if we finish the introductions while we ride? We’re on
our way to the Temple of Muff, and it is a matter of some—” he glanced behind
them and one of his brothers continued without interruption “—urgency. We’ve
already delayed much longer than we intended.”

“A little problem with my eyes,” Giorge said, smiling
wistfully. “Fortunately, they recovered fairly quickly.”

“Glad to hear it,” Angus said without malice or regret.

“As were we,” Hobart agreed. “If he had not, our business
with you would be quite different.”

Angus half-smiled and tilted his head. “It was a rather
minor spell,” he said. “I could easily have thrown the one I cast last night at
him instead.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Giorge said. “I’m not altogether fond
of being roasted.” He chuckled, and then added, “But it was a most impressive
display of your talents.”

“Yes,” Ortis said. “When we arrived last night, we were
hesitant about offering you a place in our banner, and it dispelled our
doubts.”

“I believe you are on your way to Hellsbreath, are you not?”
Hobart asked.

“Yes,” Angus replied, a bit guarded. It was no surprise that
they knew his destination; Billigan had said there were no other places to go
to on the south road. Still….

“It’s a six day walk,” Hobart said. “We can make it in two
and a half by horse.”

“We’d enjoy your companionship,” Giorge added. “Wizards
often have the most curious stories to tell.”

“Lies, more like,” Hobart grumbled, glancing over his
shoulder at the man slung across the saddle of the last horse. Even without
having a clear view, Angus knew it was a street magician by the colorful
patterns of his robe. “Judging by Teffles’ ill-fated performance.”

Ortis nodded. “Come with us, Angus. Allow us the opportunity
to persuade you to join our banner.”

“Yes,” Hobart urged. “The journey will be much more
interesting if you are with us.” He glanced at Giorge and grinned. “And much
safer for Giorge.”

Giorge groaned, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.

Ortis smiled and asked, “What say you, Wizard?”

“I’ll travel to Hellsbreath with you on two conditions,”
Angus said.

“Only two?” Hobart asked, raising his eyebrows and
brightening a bit. “We shall endeavor to satisfy them, Wizard,” he said with a
mock bow. “If they are but reasonable ones.”

Angus looked at the horse they offered—a brown colt that
looked a bit skittish—and said. “First, you’ll have to teach me how to ride.”

“Ha!” Hobart cried. “Easy enough to do. Just climb into the
saddle, put your feet in the stirrups, and hang on!”

“Now Hobart,” Giorge said. “Don’t make light of it. It may
be that simple to you, but you were part of Tyr’s cavalry for how long?”

“Ten years,” Hobart replied, “as well you know.”

“Don’t you remember what it was like when you first rode?”

“Certainly,” Hobart readily agreed. “I climbed into the
saddle, put my feet in the stirrups, and hung on.”

Ortis stifled his laughter and said, “Don’t mind them, Angus.
We’ll teach you the basics before nightfall. But Hobart is mostly right in what
he says.”

“I’ll help you up,” another Ortis said, handing him the
reins and leaning down to offer him his arm.

“I think I can manage that much,” Angus said, fixing his
left foot into the stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle. It took more
of an effort than he had expected, but once he was atop the horse, he nestled
into place as if it were a familiar old chair.

“We’ll take it at a slow walk until you get the hang of it,”
Ortis said, taking the lead.

Hobart fell into place beside Angus and said, “I’ll take the
outer edge,” he said. “No sense in you getting nervous.”

Giorge edged up on his other side, and they rode around the
tent. Once past it, they moved closer to the upslope, and another Ortis fell
into place several paces behind them, leading the steed carrying Teffles’ body.
The last Ortis followed some distance further behind.

Once they were settled into a slow but steady rhythm, Hobart
asked, “What is the second condition?”

“Tell me what a banner is,” he said, “and how Teffles met
his end.”

“Why,” Hobart said, his voice mild, full of surprise. “I
thought everyone in Tyr’s domain knew what a banner is.”

“I,” Angus said, then stopped.
I must not tell them about
my amnesia
. He shook his head. “I spent my life cooped up in Voltari’s
tower,” he said. “I don’t have much experience with the world.”

“You could have fooled me,” Giorge said, looking sidelong at
him. “The way you reacted when I came to visit you was far from inexperienced.”

Angus ignored his speculative stare and said, “Voltari
trained me well.”

“Not well enough,” Hobart said, “if he didn’t tell you about
banners.”

“We were focused on other things,” Angus said, glancing at
the still tender welt on his right palm.

“No matter,” Hobart said, smiling. “It is easy enough to
explain. Simple, really. It is a long tradition handed down through King Tyr’s
line. When a soldier rises through the ranks, he has to make choices. Does he
stick with it or leave? If he rises high enough, King Tyr grants him land and a
command of his own. When he dies, the land reverts back to the king, and a new
commander is assigned to his ranks. It’s a very lucrative arrangement for the
officer in question, since he gets the use of the land and whatever profits can
be gained from it—after the king takes his cut, of course. Now, you have to be
in Tyr’s army for twenty years to become eligible for the land grant—if one is
available, that is. There are a limited number of them, and King Tyr is far too
generous to confiscate lands for a new commission.”

“He hasn’t been tempted to, yet,” Giorge said. “There has
always been a bit of a shortage of lifers to draw upon.”

“True,” Hobart conceded, leaning forward in his saddle to
look past Angus. “But his line has a history of just treatment of their
subjects, and his army would be hard-pressed to support him if he changed that
policy.”

Giorge shrugged. “No sense arguing about it,” he said. “It’s
not altogether important at the moment.”

Hobart shifted in his saddle and turned back to Angus.
“Giorge is a bit too much of a free spirit,” he said. “He’s not at all fond of
authority, even when the authority is his benefactor.”

“Not mine,” Giorge protested. “This is
your
banner.
I’m just tagging along.”

Hobart sighed and shook his head. “You’ve been tagging along
for four years,” he countered.

Giorge grinned and shrugged. “There’s always tomorrow,” he
said.

Hobart ignored him and continued. “Most soldiers last a few
years, maybe a bit longer. Some, like me, make it to ten. That’s when the first
major decision needs to be made. If you continue past ten years—assuming there
are positions for you in the ranks and the king doesn’t dismiss you—then you
have to serve the next five years in The Borderlands.”

“The Borderlands?” Angus asked. “Like The Tween?”

Giorge chuckled. “The Tween is tame compared to The
Borderlands. Nobody really worries about the mountain dwarves anymore. But the
fishmen, now,
they
are a plague—and a deadly one at that.”

Hobart nodded. “The Borderlands run along the northern edge
of the kingdom,” he said, “where the grasslands meet the swamp. That swamp is
an unpleasant place. The stench is horrendous; it creeps into your nostrils and
settles there, like the slow, constant torture of a toothache. There’s good
reason why people call it the Death Swamps. Every harvest, the fishmen come out
to raid the farms, and King Tyr has to send half his army to defend them.”
Hobart paused for a moment, shook his head, and clenched his jaw. “It’s a rough
assignment,” he continued. “A lot of soldiers die. A lot more fishmen do, but
they just spawn replacements the next year and come back just as strong.”