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MEDRAUT WATCHED FROM inside the doorway of the dark barn as the shape that was Gault glided from shadow to shadow. Envy at the way the other man moved heated his face. Not even a single rustle of cloth disturbed the sleeping village.
I would have left him in the mountains, except that I need Gault to steal food and horses.
He knew he could have made better time on the wing rather than in the saddle. However, word about a dragon roaming the land would spread too fast to outrun the warning. With everyone on the alert, I would be hunted.
No villager will stop me from getting even with the traders for humiliating me.
A wave from Gault ended Medraut’s contemplation of his future revenge. Another scan of the area beyond the door and he ran to where the other man waited.
Only two steps away from the building, a cry went up. "Strangers!"
Peripheral vision showed a young boy racing toward the town well. "Strangers at the barn." The youth had not even slowed his headlong race before people started piling out of the huts.
"Easy, Rhod," a softer voice said. The speaker, a gray-haired woman stepped from the gathering crowd. "I am sorry for Rhod's greeting. We don’t get many visitors this time of year, especially unannounced after dark. I am Taliath, leader of this valley. Welcome." She gestured at a hut in the center of the square. "Please join me for some food and drink. Our ware may not be fancy, but it fills the void."
A tilt of her head drew Medraut’s attention to where Gault stood, his dirt-covered clothes blending in with the log wall. "Your friend is also welcome."
For a second, Medraut considered grabbing the woman and using her as leverage to get what he wanted. Why not take the easy way and have these villagers give it to us, willingly? Trelleir is not here to block me. I will not fail again.
Coming up with the plans to secure the villager’s cooperation took most of the meal with Taliath and the other leaders.
Now is the time. His powers surging behind the restraint, he flicked an invisible net over the old woman and commanded her to bow to him.
Taliath stood. A shake of her head sent her long braid swinging.
Surprise held Medraut in place. Instead of obeying, the woman appeared in full possession of her will.
The village leader pointed out the door to where the light of a lantern shone in front of a hut. "Beds have been prepared for your use for the night. Travel supplies will be ready for you in the morning."
"Taliath, thank you and your kin for your hospitality. However, my friend, Gault, and I require more than a few days of food. We track a caravan of traders and need men to help me take back what is mine."
Confusion changed to anger in the old woman’s face. "I think you misunderstood me, Medraut. Some food for the road is all that we will provide."
The scan Medraut sent around the room showed several villagers reaching for their belt knives. Others already had their hands on their weapons' hilts. Now is the time. He pictured the men’s anger and fear as purple threads. A breath and he dropped a loop around a man’s neck. As soon as the glowing loop touched the villager’s shoulders, all tension left his body. His expression blanked to one of absolute servitude.
"One down, two dozen more to go," Medraut hissed. One by one he put the men and village leaders under his control. A curse and sharp pain down his side reminded him he had not accounted for the women. Keeping a tight hold on his spell, he diverted a fraction of his mind to scan the room. Taliath writhed on the floor, a hand pressed against her shoulder. Blood streamed from her fingers.
Gault held up several more armed women. Their skill, or lack of it, showed in the clumsy way they held their blades.
A push of his magic failed to achieve the desired goal of having the women drop their weapons. If anything, their grips and determination tightened. The debate about whether or not to save Taliath lasted a single heartbeat until he decided he needed her. He formed the ethereal threads into a thick rope and wrapped her in it. "Obey me."
No matter how much power he threw into the restraint, the old woman struggled to stand up.
Finally, in exasperation, he growled. "Do what I say or your men will die" When he saw he had the women’s attention, Medraut expanded his orders. "All males between the ages of sixteen and fifty will accompany me to the edge of the valley." His gaze hardened. "If anyone tries to interfere, they will die." Now he softened his tone. "Give me the food and horses I want, and your kin will be returned to you unharmed."
FOG SWIRLED AROUND his horse’s fetlocks, but it did nothing to mute the unearthly heartbeat of the valley. "Not again," came Medraut’s pain-filled growl. "Another singing valley and more of that accursed sound." He raised his hands to cover his ears. Misinterpreting the pull on the reins as a command, the horse beneath him stopped.
Like the last several valleys they had crossed, the sound of their passing was not a soft swish or muffled footstep. The brain didn't pick up the rhythm and turn the noise into a comforting tune. Instead, each step, each breeze, brought with it a discordant clack that grated on the nerves.
The need to push forward at a faster pace to beat the traders to the convocation site overwhelmed. As soon as he kicked his horse for a quicker gait, the increased speed increased the noise.
As he had too often since they left the village, he looked over his shoulder, and as he suspected, the villagers were strung out behind him. "We need more horses."
Medraut’s snarl spooked the horse and he had to turn its leap into a spin, before continuing his evaluation. "I need the men and their swords to take over the wagons, but on foot the men keep slowing me down." Another growl and he added. "Not to mention the toll on my magic to keep these rambunctious prisoners docile."
A hiss turned attention from the straggling men to where the scout waved.
"Now what?" Medraut wanted to yell. But he didn't dare risk a break in his spell.
A shift in the fog revealed what the signal was about, large tan boulders blocked their path. Movement turned what appeared as rock into the large deer that inhabited the mountains. The animals clambered to their feet, forming two circles. By the time they stopped moving, he counted a dozen males and half that many large females in the outer protective circle around a smaller, more tightly packed one.
The sight of so much food on the hoof made Medraut’s mouth water. No, I need the animals alive, rather than dead. A smile twitched his lips. The creatures’ bony backs would not make for comfortable riding even with improvised saddles made from a belt and a blanket.
His mind made up, Medraut gathered his powers, envisioning them as a ball of glowing blue string. Deft movements created a loop. The twitch of his fingers sent the magical rope sailing through the air to land over the largest deer’s antlers. An envisioned snip and he let the end dangle between his thumb and palm. One by one, ropes flew until each member of the outer ring of elk stood in obedient silence.
Tugs on the glowing reins lined them up. Sharp commands to the villagers had them creating their improvised saddles, and before the sun dropped a measure toward the horizon, the group was back on the trail.
Despite making better time than before, Medraut’s unease grew. Shifts in the shadows hinted of followers.
But by whom? Or what? Was it the rest of the herd, tracking their captured members? The villagers searching for their lost men?
His blood chilled. Or was it the traders out for their own revenge?
MEDRAUT’S WORLD REDUCED to the shifting gray shadow that was Gault. His eyes hurt from straining to see through the curtain of hail and rain that almost obscured the rider and horse. He rode with one foot scraping the rocks on the side of the narrow trail while his other hung over a thousand-foot precipice. One misstep and both rider and mount would plummet to the valley floor.
The driving rain of the summer storm stung every spot of unprotected skin like a thousand cuts. Icy rivulets ran off the wide-brimmed hat and sneaked beneath the collar of the lake seal cloak obtained from the villagers. Waterlogged clothes sucked every ounce of heat from his body. Only where his legs lay against the horse’s coat did he have even a vague feeling. Hours of riding in the howling maelstrom of cold and wet had dulled his mind to anything beyond the need to stay in the saddle.
The scream of a man and horse bounced off the rock wall, briefly rose, then was abruptly cut off.
"Damm, this storm," Medraut swore. "Another man, another weapon lost. How am I to get my vengeance against Karst and the rest of the traders if I keep losing men?" It would be so much easier, he thought, if the animals could not sense my true self. Using magic to keep them docile is too draining. And the stags are even worse.
The memory of coming across the small herd replayed in his mind. It had taken all his ability to keep the stags from running away. As it was, the does and fawns slipped into the woods along with the herd leader. He regretted wasting his magic so the men could have something to ride, but he needed the extra mounts. The villagers walked too slow and couldn’t keep up with the village horses even though the animals moved at the plodding pace of a draft animal pulling a plow rather than the spirited canter of the animals ridden by the caravan's scouts. His rage deepened. The village didn’t have that many horses to begin with and most were out scouting the passes. We only started with a handful and we’ve already lost two.
He looked back at the straggly line of men. As he had a dozen times since the storm started, he sent a shimmering ribbon along the line. The horses and wild stags that had been fighting their nose ropes or reins settled back into a steady walk.
"Not far ahead," Gault called over his shoulder.
At the other man’s words, the horse beneath Medraut broke into a trot. His horse headed toward a shadow where the rock wall curved back from the ledge. A cave, his cold-numbed mind supplied after Gault disappeared into what appeared to be a pile of boulders. Three steps later Medraut entered a black maw. The narrow slit opened into a small chamber, then the horse walked into a larger room where the storm didn’t reach. "Finally,” he whispered. His first attempt to dismount ended with him hanging onto the saddle. The horse skittered away dragging Medraut with it.
"Stop, you flea-eaten nag." A push of magic and the animal planted its hooves. It didn’t move an inch, even as it quivered in fear.
A push and Medraut staggered to the stone bench against one wall.
"Master?"
"I am fine, Gault. Is this all there is?"
"No." The other man pointed into the darkness at the end of the chamber. "There is a large room back there set up as a stable. It will serve the stags and the horses. Someone even left a few bales of straw to use as bedding." He scooped up a handful of dry pine needles out of a pile and he let them trickle between his fingers. "These will nicely serve as kindling if I can find wood."
"Well, go find some," Medraut snarled. "I am cold and hungry." He pulled the blanket out of his pack and wrapped it around his shoulders. "And take care of my horse. It isn’t much but it is better than those antlered beasts the others ride."
MEDRAUT PULLED THE blanket tighter around his shoulders. And peered out the narrow crevice. No night sky, no stars could be seen, only an impenetrable wall of gray fog and sleet. Curses escaped his lips. After three days, the storm still raged, trapping him and his ragbag group inside the protection of the stone walls. A stretch and he returned to the main chamber and curled up under the blanket on the bench.
No matter how hard he tried, Medraut could not fall asleep. He had not been in this crowded of quarters since he left the young males’ dormitory on the dragon isle. The snores of the sleeping men echoed off the cave walls. Even with the fire Gault had made, the damp cold seeped into the bones. The only saving grace for the spot was that he did not have to use his magic to keep the stags and the villagers under control. The animals were secured in a rear cavern, while a sleep spell handled the men.
Even the short time they had been in the traveler’s shelter had enabled his magic to regain its strength. Now is the time, he decided to tackle the unease that had festered since the escape from the trader’s camp. It is time to figure out who the red dragon is.
Looking into the fire, he tied his magic to the dancing flames. A whispered spell and he ordered the fire to reveal the identity of the interloper.
Neither the image of a dragon nor the face of a human appeared.
Anger fueled his determination. I will find out who ruined my plans.
The sputtering flames guided his memory back to the red dragon’s arrival. As it winged over the field. the dragon protecting the wagons could be anyone, he snarled. Image by image, he replayed the battle. The movements of a single fighter sharpened his attention. The face remained in shadow, but the techniques gave away the person's identity. He had seen her in practice too many times not to recognize Deneas as the one who took out Caldar's men. No, he corrected, she did not just wield a sword in defense of the traders. The slayer worked in concert with the dragon.
The star-studded night sky replaced the orange-colored one that backdropped the battle. Couples danced or stood within the protective circle of the wagons. He visualized the night of the Pairing Festival. One pair moved with a unison and grace that he had never seen before. Focusing on the people revealed they were Deneas and Trelleir.
A shocking realization chilled his soul. The dancers moved the same way that Deneas and the dragon did. Their bodies flickered. But not from the firelight. From magic?
He could not deny the thought that rose.
The red dragon is Trelleir. He is the one who robbed me of the night with Brial...Stole my prize.
But why can’t I get a clear vision of Deneas?
SUNLIGHT GREETED MEDRAUT’S exit from the darkness of the trees. The warmth, though welcome. did little to rebuild the energy that the damp air of the cave had leached away. Even worse, keeping the villagers and their unruly, wild mounts under control had taken every ounce of his powers ... and he had done it without rest. The knowledge that there was another dragon in the land had kept his mind in turmoil. Even after the storm broke, things had not improved. He could not even sleep in the saddle. Every time his attention wavered, either the villagers or the stags tried to escape.
He turned in the saddle and yelled to the milling group of men, horses, and stags behind him, "Follow me. And be quick about it." Under his breath he added, "Gault had better be right about the location of the convocation valley. I can’t take more than another day of these clods."
As if Gault heard his master’s thoughts, he reined in his horse and waved. "Look, Master. I was right. Down there is the gathering place for the clans."
A kick of his horse brought Medraut’s horse cantering up the narrow trail to the outrider. "This had better be good."
Excitement pulsed in Medraut’s veins. An immense valley, one that would take several days to fly across, hung between mountain peaks. Water plunged over the stone walls in magnificent falls that created shimmering rainbows.
But it was the far wall that drew the eye. Not because any sparkling water dampened the rocks. A massive structure cut into the black rock dominated the vista. More than the sheer size of the structure gave the impression of timelessness, so did the detail of the façade of what appeared as a row of columns. His quick calculation of the time to create the building said it was built by some ancient tribe over the eons. Dragon vision added millennia when it revealed the columns lining the portico entrance were colossal statues of armed warriors.
"Yes," came out in a satisfied crow. They had reached the valley of the gathering of the clans. Despite his eagerness to move on, the vista held him captivated.
Gault pointed out a series of dark circles. "Master, there are the official ways into the valley. Each is a tunnel leading from the smaller, more protected campsite valleys."
The urge to hit the former trader had to be ruthlessly quashed. "We can’t just walk down there. Both of us are wanted men. To even show our faces would be a death sentence."
"We don’t have to, master. One of the times when I was ‘researching’ in Feldt’s quarters, I saw a map of the valley. Besides the tunnels used by the wagon trains, there are secret trails. Paths that are not suitable for a wagon, but traversable by a horse and rider. As leader of the council, Feldt knew them all." Gault’s face reddened. "I never did find the map of the extra trails."
"So? Why tell me about them at all?"
The other man shrank before the anger Medraut let flare in his eyes.
"Please, master." Gault held up his hands in protection. "Feldt’s private journal contained information on one of the paths. And I found it."
"Again, so?"
"The trail I found doesn’t go to the area where Vreis camps, nor to the main gathering area." Gault’s face brightened. "A man named Deheoul left Vreis some time ago. They wouldn’t speak of him, but I found out he didn’t leave of his own free will."
Frustration at the slow dribble of information had Medraut’s hand swinging at Gault’s head.
"No, master. I beg you. Don't hit me. Deheoul now leads a wagon train. I can get you to his camp."
"Don't test me, Gault. My patience wears thin." Gault held a hand to his face.
"The trail is too steep, the curves too sharp for the stags and villagers. We should release them. They are becoming more trouble than they are worth. Don’t worry. We won’t need them. And it will look better if just the two of us meet Deheoul. That way it won’t look like a raiding part, but more like partners arriving for a meeting."
The sound of a fist on flesh rang out.
The fear-laden gulp and loss of color from Gault's face told Medraut the point had been made. "We don’t need the villagers. We will be safe. Deheoul hates Feldt as much as I do."