The Reluctant Mage Read online

  “Don’t, Charis,” Deenie murmured, then looked at Ewen. “Yes, you’re standing on the path now, but you won’t be for much longer.” She pointed ahead. “It ends there. Morg’s sorcery’s ruined it. I’m sorry. We can’t hide from beasts and wanderers any more.”

  His hand was already on his sword-hilt. Now he half-pulled the blade from its scabbard. So did his barracks men, every one of them ready to fight.

  “Morg’s done this?”

  “His sorcery has, yes. That’s what it does, Ewen. It poisons things.”

  The look in his eyes told her he wanted to say, “And how do you know?” But he didn’t. He slid his sword back into its scabbard and looked at Robb.

  “We’ll ride on. Stay wary.”

  “Deenie.” Worried, Charis bit her lip. “You’re looking awful again.”

  She was feeling awful again. “It’s not so bad. Any road, what can’t be cured must be endured. That’s what ole Darran liked to say, and he was right.”

  “And if we ride across more beasts? If you’re fighting the blight…”

  Will I be strong enough to kill them? She didn’t know. But how could she say that? “Don’t fratch. I’ll keep us safe.”

  Ewen kicked free of a stirrup and leaned down, hand outstretched. Clasping him wrist to wrist, her foot in his stirrup, she leapt and he pulled. It was a familiar dance now, but there was no smile from him this time. She settled behind the saddle, feeling sad. Feeling ill.

  As they rode on, barracks men on either side, he surprised her with a question. “The spirit path’s poisoned, you say. How long before the poison spreads back to that village?”

  Another question she didn’t want to answer, but at least this time she could tell the truth. “I don’t know.”

  He grunted. “Poison them too, will it? Morg’s blight? Or just the path?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” She could feel him, tense and angry, within her loose embrace. “Ewen, why does your king not protect those villagers, instead of leaving them to fend for themselves all the way out here?”

  “Clap tongue, girl,” he snapped. “The king does what he can. Vharne’s history’s a sorry tangle, it is.”

  Clearly. And then she was struck by another horrible thought. “Ewen, do you even know how many villages like that one are lost in the rough?”

  “No,” he said, after a long, uncomfortable silence. “It’s the rough, it is. And it’s not enough scouts we’ve got to look under every rock and blade of grass.”

  So when he said Morg ruined his country, he wasn’t stretching the truth.

  His voice was full of pain and shame. But it wasn’t his fault. He was a barracks captain, he couldn’t order the king to find all the people he’d lost in Vharne’s wilderness.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t mean to—” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” he said, weary.

  And there was nothing else to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  With dusk swiftly approaching they were picking their careful, glimlit way through another stretch of shadowed woodland when the blight roiling in Deenie surged a sharper pain through her.

  She gasped. “Ewen. Wanderers.”

  “You’re sure, girl?” he said, over his shoulder. “It’s wanderers, not beasts?”

  “I’m sure,” she said, as sickness churned her. “They feel different.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. A few.” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. “Please, Ewen, can’t we ride on? Can’t we leave them be?”

  Because I feel so sick and I’m not sure I can kill them.

  He made a curt, impatient sound. “No. Where are they?”

  No. Just like that. She felt a sizzle of anger. So her feelings didn’t matter? She didn’t matter?

  And if I refuse to tell him, what then? He’ll abandon me and Charis here, like his king abandoned those poor, helpless villagers?

  She thought that in this mood, most likely he would.

  Robb, riding beside them, had one hand on his sword-hilt. Beneath the beard he’d not scraped off, his weathered face was taut with alarm at the notion of wanderers nearby. Slumped behind his saddle, her arms loosely clasped, Charis dozed with her cheek squashed against his broad back. He jabbed his elbow, not gently, and she jerked awake.

  “What? What?” She stared around, fuzzled. “Deenie?”

  “Wanderers, Charis,” she said. “Shake off the cobwebs.”

  Charis squeaked. “Wanderers? Barl save us. Where?”

  “Tell her, Deenie,” said Ewen. “Then we’ll both know, we will.”

  “It doesn’t matter where they are,” said Charis, clutching Robb’s lean middle. “They’re not here, that’s what matters. Well? What are we waiting for? Are we galloping away or aren’t we?”

  Ewen ignored her. “Deenie.”

  Had she been pleased to find him? Had her heart missed a beat at the sound of his voice? Had she felt safe in his sheltering arms?

  I’m the noddyhead, I am.

  But she had to tell him. She’d promised she would. Pounded with pain and sickness, stabbed through with misery, she pointed. “That way.”

  Spurring his horse to jittering, Ewen wrenched hard to the left. “Barracks men!” he shouted. “Barracks men, to me!” And then he spurred his horse again and leaned forward, slackening the reins.

  The horse leapt wildly, narrowly missing a tall, thin tree. These woods were different, the ground thickly cushioned with fallen needles, not leaves. The air smelled different too, cleanly sharp instead of rich and peaty. With no undergrowth to tangle them they could ride fast, and Ewen did. His barracks men kept pace behind him, Charis’s breathless protests almost lost in the muffled drubbing of hooves.

  Deenie hid her face and held on, not caring if she cracked all of Ewen’s ribs.

  Don’t fall off, Charis, whatever you do. He won’t stop to help you and you’ll likely be trampled.

  Oh, this was madness. The day’s light was almost faded, glooming shadows blotting out the way ahead, and the glimfire she’d conjured for them couldn’t make a difference at this pace. They were cantering, cantering, weaving like a gaggle of drunken loomsters between the woodland’s slender, haphazard trees. One misstep, one mistake, and there’d be a calamity.

  “Ewen!” she bawled into his ear, mercilessly bounced and jostled as the horse’s hindquarters bunched and thudded beneath her. “Sink me, you fool of a man, slow down! Someone’s going to get killed.”

  “Clap tongue, girl!” he shouted back at her. “Steer me to the wanderers!”

  He’d lost his reason. He must have. She risked a glance to the right, where Robb was cantering apace with them, Charis still piggyback, clutching and desperate. Oh, Charis. What was Robb thinking? He was Ewen’s Dirk, his trusted right hand. Why did he let Ewen ride roughshod, and so dangerous? And for what? For wanderers? He’d called them brain-rotted, and he wasn’t far wrong. What could he possibly hope to learn from those poor lost souls?

  She caught a glimpse of Charis’s face, drained bloodless with fear, and for a moment sheer anger blotted out the blight.

  “Ewen! Stop!”

  And still he wouldn’t listen. She was tempted, so tempted, to wrap her fingers round his tail of red hair and yank it ’til he howled or fell off the horse.

  I can mage him. I can use a spell from the diary, the one that keeps a man harmless without having to lay a finger on him. I think I can. I can try. Only—

  Only he’d never forgive her if she did that, and she needed him for reaching Rafel. The chances of her and Charis making it safely to Dorana, to Elvado, without him and his barracks men were slim.

  “Deenie!” he shouted over the sounds of pounding hooves and jangling harness. “Where are they? How far?”

  Him and his sinkin’ wanderers.

  “I can’t tell! I can’t think straight!” she shouted back. “Slow down and I’ll maybe feel them!”

/>   She heard him growl in frustration, and then he raised a clenched fist. “Hold! Hold!”

  Plumed with hot breath, sweat steaming from their coats, the barracks horses slowed, canter to trot, trot to walk, walk to a huffing, puffing halt.

  Before Deenie could even open her mouth, Ewen turned to glare at Charis. “Clap tongue, girl, I say. One word and I leave you here.”

  Shocked, Charis gaped at him, breathing hard. But she believed Ewen’s threat. Only a noddyhead wouldn’t.

  “Deenie,” he snapped. He was hardly panting. “The wanderers.”

  Close to tears of a sudden, she rested her forehead against his back. Undistracted, the rotten taste of them slapped her viciously, like a waterspout. Threatened to drown her like a whirlpool. To find them exactly she’d have to stop fighting the blight.

  And I don’t want to. I don’t.

  Pestilent. Filthy. Rancid as fly-blown meat. The wanderers’ decay savaged her until she groaned.

  “Up ahead. Keep your eyes peeled. Ewen—”

  “Ride on,” he told his barracks men. “Behind me. Any man rides past me, it’s him I’ll leave behind, I will. Deenie, it’s more light, we need.”

  She conjured fresh glimfire. That small act of gentle magic stirred the blight into revolt. Barl’s tits. I can’t bear this. But Rafe was counting on her, and so were Da and Lur.

  No wonder Da never wanted to be the Innocent Mage, if this is how it feels.

  Ewen spurred their horse into a steady, prancing trot. The barracks men pranced behind him. Then he eased into a slow canter, and the following hoof beats started dancing. The glimfire bobbed above them, tethered by magic, spilling light on the ground. Then the woodland floor dipped, a shallow scoop in the earth. It dipped again, more deeply. The snorting horses shortened their strides, bouncing. Deenie felt a swamping surge.

  “Ewen.”

  He nodded, but that was it. Save for the hard, steady hammering of his heart he might’ve been made of stone, like King Gar on his coffin.

  The sloping ground eased, the trees thinned, and there was a clearing ahead of them. And in the clearing, rag-dressed and stinking, a muttering, maundering huddle of brain-rotted wanderers.

  Ewen leaned back, banging his shoulder blades into Deenie’s face, hauling the horse onto its haunches. The poor beast came near to sitting down and that sent her flying. Again. She hit the needle-soft ground hard and rolled over fallen branches and a sharp, half-buried rock that bruised her side. Dizzily she sat up, spitting dirt and twigs, to see Ewen in the glimlight slide from his saddle. Sword drawn and lifted, he strode towards the wanderers with an ominous purpose.

  The creatures’ stink churned her. Her mage-sense rebelled. Belly heaving, she staggered to standing and took a step after him.

  “Hold!” said Robb, knowing she’d understand him. “Don’t you move, girl, or the captain’ll put you down, he will.”

  Turning, she saw that he and the other barracks men were slid from their horses with their swords out, but not a one of them looked like they’d follow to guard Ewen’s back. What were they doing? Were they Ewen’s men, or not?

  Robb saw her confusion. “We stand ground ’til he calls us, girl. Understand?”

  “Listen to him, Deenie,” said Charis, down off her horse and propped against the nearest tree. She looked seasick. “And don’t you lift a finger. Let those horrible things tear Captain Noddyhead’s face off. It would just serve him right.”

  Blight-struck, she still managed to shake her head. Oh, Charis. Can’t you see? There’s something terribly wrong. “Robb,” she said, and held out a cautioning hand. “I need to know what’s happening. A little closer. A few steps. Please?”

  Wary, understanding her pleading tone if not her words, he didn’t protest her shifting a few paces nearer to Ewen. Because he was loyal, she thought Robb was frighted for his captain. Watching him carefully, she thought she saw him nod. So she shuffled closer again, inching round so she could see Ewen’s face. Then Robb’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening on his sword-hilt, so she stopped.

  Ewen had almost reached the wanderers. Lost in their madness they hadn’t seen him, or didn’t care. He’d taken the glimfire with him, and now she’d shifted close enough that it showed her three men and a woman and a sorry, blighted youth.

  “I want to see you properly, I do,” Ewen said to them, his blade gleaming liquid fire. “Let me see you!”

  As though his voice was a spell-breaker, the wanderers cried aloud and broke out of their huddle. Bloody, rotting and pustuled, their clothing torn to rags, the stink of them was rank in the swiftly cooling dusk air.

  “I need more light!” he shouted. “Deenie—”

  Smothered with blight, hurting, she conjured him more glimfire. And then, baffled, watched him ignore the woman and youth and drag the nearest rotted man into the brighter light. Watched him search those ghastly features with an alarming intensity. She glanced back at Robb. His bearded face was stiff with self-control, but his blue eyes were full of pity and fear.

  “Deenie?” said Charis, pushing away from the tree. “Deenie, what’s he doing?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Hush.”

  The first rotted man abandoned, now Ewen stared at his companions, just as intently. But who was he looking for? What was this about?

  Disappointed, Ewen stepped back. “You’re people of Vharne, you are,” he said, his voice close to cracking. “My people. I can see that much left in you, I can. Speak to me. How are you rotted?”

  Deenie bit her lip again. He was close to begging. The pain in his voice hurt her almost as much as the blight.

  “Tell me your names!” he demanded. “And your villages. I’ll find your families, I will. I’ll give them your ashes for the spirit wall. Don’t leave them not knowing. Don’t be cruel, I say.”

  Days and days of riding, fleeing rain and cold and beasts, and never had she heard him like this. Desperate. Almost frantic.

  Instead of answering him, the wanderers started swaying. And then they started crooning, their hoarse voices eerie in the glimlit gloom.

  “And in the morning of the last days there was a blood-red sun. The sundered parts all came together and oh there was a joining and the world rejoiced.”

  Ewen fell back a pace and his sword came up, as though he had to defend himself from the nonsensical words. Hearing a sound behind her, Deenie turned to see Robb and the barracks men crowding close. Their faces chilled her, full of rage and pain and fear.

  “You’re from Vharne!” Ewen shouted over the wanderers’ madness. “It’s your king I’m seeking! Help me find him, I say!”

  Shocked, Deenie turned again to Robb. The barracks man met her eyes once, then looked away.

  “Did he say king?” said Charis, her eyes wide. “He’s looking for Vharne’s king? But he said—”

  “It’s missing, Murdo is,” said Robb gruffly. “Thought maybe to find him in the rough, the captain did, on the way to Dorana.”

  Vharne’s king.

  No wonder Ewen had been so determined to chase after wanderers. Deenie stared at him.

  Why didn’t he tell me? He could’ve told me.

  The wanderers they’d found and caught were still crooning—but there was a rising note of danger in their voices, the same warning she’d heard in those other wanderers near the river. Could Ewen hear it? Or was he deafened by grief?

  Robb heard it. “Captain!” he called. “Captain—it’s done here, you are!”

  If Ewen heard his barracks Dirk, he gave no sign of it.

  “Captain!” Robb bellowed. “Do you need me?”

  There was something odd in the way Robb asked the question. Deenie exchanged glances with Charis, then took another step closer to Ewen.

  Robb flung up his hand. “Hold, girl. Leave the captain to himself, you will.”

  “Do as he says, Deenie,” said Charis. “That’s a bloody big sword.”

  “Captain,” Robb called again, as the other
barracks men shifted and shuffled, their uneasiness stirring the air like the blight. “Do you need me?”

  “No,” said Ewen, his voice tight. “Stand ground, Robb. This is mine.”

  And without warning, with five swift strokes of his glimfired blade, he killed every one of the blighted wanderers. And when they were all dead, mercifully silent, let his sword fall and dropped weeping to his knees.

  Stricken, Deenie pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “Girl,” said Robb, his hand touching her shoulder. “The captain’s brother. Padrig. He died like that, he did.”

  What? “No! But that’s awful. Who—”

  Guessing her meaning, Robb flinched. “The captain.”

  Oh, Ewen.

  She ran to him, heedless of his sword, of any danger. But as she reached him, her blighted heart breaking, he used his blood-stained blade to help him stand, then turned. His face was worse than stony. It looked like ice carved into a man.

  “We ride on, we do,” he said. “I’ll not camp in these woods.”

  And then he pushed past her, unseeing, as though never once had he held her weeping or danced his fingers over her hair.

  It was a bad night after, cold and damp with only two small rabbits between them. Dismayed, churned with blight, Deenie stayed awake in case of more wanderers. Ewen stayed awake too, but never uttered a word. Once she tried to talk to him of Padrig. Of his missing king. If he’d been a sorcerer his furious glare would’ve dropped her cold dead. At dawn they saddled the horses and kept going, and just after noon they reached Vharne’s crossroads border.

  “So we decide now, we do,” said Ewen, brooding at the weathered border stone jutting out of the dirt. “Ride Ranoush, ride Manemli, they’ll both get us to Dorana, they will.”

  Charis leaned past Robb to gaze at the brown grass plain and the stunted saplings dotting it.

  “Which way’s most direct?”

  Ewen pointed east. “Manemli. Head west and it’s Ranoush then Brantone then an eastwards turn for Dorana.”

  “Well, I’ve no idea,” said Charis, resigned. “Deenie? Does your mage-sense have a suggestion?”