Sara Douglass – The Axis Trilogy 2 – Enchanter

“What do you think of the valley ahead?” he asked as Azhure reined in Belaguez by his side.

“There’s a camp site about a third of the way down the valley,” she said. “Perhaps some fifteen men and their horses. They have a camp fire, but they use long-dead wood so that it burns bright with no smoke.”

Magariz nodded. “Good. If you were their commander, would you allow all your men to sit about the fire and sing cheerful songs in territory that is distinctly unfriendly?”

“No. No. There are, ah,” Azhure strained her eyes, “about fifteen men around the fire, but considerably more horses. He has sentries posted. Perhaps six or seven.”

“Very well, what do you suggest?”

She turned to look at him. His face was dark and inscrutable beneath the hood of his black cloak. “Attack?”

Magariz considered. “Perhaps. Twenty or so less men for Borneheld would help us, but I do not know where the patrol commander has his sentries, and I hardly think it worthwhile to risk an attack for just twenty or so men.”

“And if we could dispose of the sentries — could we capture those about the fire? Wring what information we could from them before we kill them?”

“Ideally. But how do we dispose of unseen sentries?”

Azhure’s eyes were cold. “I send in the Alaunt. They can track them. Kill them in silence. They will be dead in half an hour at the most. The main group about the fire wall never know we are there until we have them surrounded.”

“Then send in the hounds, Azhure, and we will see how silently they can track and kill.”

They killed both silently and well, and were back at Azhure’s side in less than twenty minutes, their muzzles flecked with red. “Well?” she asked Magariz.

“We go in on foot for added silence. The band about the fire will suspect nothing. Come, bring your archers.”

It was dusk by the time they surrounded the fifteen men relaxing about the fire. Azhure had kept the Alaunt close by her side and had approached downwind in order not to frighten the men’s horses, hobbled some distance away down the stream. Five men flanked the patrol about the camp fire and moved to cut the horses free. Magariz moved the rest, both archers and ordinary soldiers, into position with hand signals, then indicated that Azhure should stay close to him. Azhure notched an arrow into the Wolven.

They crouched in the tree line just outside the range of the firelight, listening to the men talk. They were from Jervois Landing, and, like Magariz’s patrol, almost at the end of their duty and relieved they had avoided the desperate armed bandits they’d heard were in these hills.

Azhure felt Magariz tense and glanced at him. He pointed to a soldier relaxing against a rock and whispered, “Nevelon. Lieutenant to Duke Roland. A good man.”

Azhure looked at the man. He was young and fit, with thick brown hair and a short-cropped beard. Not good enough, she thought, if he still owed his loyalty to Borneheld rather than Axis.

Magariz placed a hand on Azhure’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “Back me up on this, Azhure. I want to speak to them. Nevelon is a sensible man. If he knows his command is surrounded by archers he will not try to fight his way free. Can your archers put a ring of arrows about them?”

Azhure nodded, signalled to her men, then raised her eyebrows at Magariz. She had the Wolven ready to fire. “Now?”

“Now,” he nodded.

At Azhure’s signal a vicious rustle of arrows filled the air, and an instant later the men about the camp fire leapt to their feet and gazed horrified, at the arrows ringing them in a perfect circle.

“Nevelon.” Magariz stepped into the firelight. “Do not consider your weapons. At my signal, or at the first handspan of steel that you or any one of your men draw, you are dead.”

Nevelon nodded curtly and motioned to his men to drop their hands from their sword hilts.

“Magariz,” he said. “I thought you were dead.”

“Alas, no.” Magariz’s entire posture was relaxed and confident. In the firelight his scarred face looked demonic. “It seems we both escaped Gorkenfort safely. Tell me, how is your Duke, Roland?”

A muscle in Nevelon’s cheek twitched. By Artor, the man was as cool as if he trod the court in Carlon. Did he intend to kill them? “Roland still lives – although these last months have seen him lose considerable weight.”

“And Borneheld. Fit and well? I would hate to hear he had succumbed to a cold on the flight from Gorkenfort.”

“The King is well,” Nevelon said carefully.

Magariz rocked in surprise. Borneheld was King? He almost tripped as his wounded leg slipped on a loose rock underfoot.

Nevelon grinned, and reached for the dagger in his belt. He was widely renowned for his skill at throwing the blade, and he could easily kill Magariz before the man had time to signal to his archers. If they all died in a hail of arrows after that — well, Magariz surely intended to kill them anyway. His hand whipped the knife out of his belt, but before he let it fly Nevelon gave a cry of pain and dropped the knife. Bristling from the back of his hand was an arrow fletched with beautiful blue feathers.

“The next one goes in your left eye, Nevelon,” a woman’s voice said, “and I will personally be the one to twist it all the way through to your brain. Do you understand me?”

Nevelon nodded, clutching his hand to his chest.

“Then I would appreciate my arrow back, Lieutenant,” the voice continued. “Would you mind twisting it out and throwing it behind Magariz?”

Nevelon couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Twist it out? The arrowhead had penetrated so deeply it was halfway through the palm of his hand.

“Now ” the voice demanded.

Magariz laughed sardonically. “Nevelon, hear her. She has a special attachment to those arrows, and will not mind killing you with another to get the first back.”

Nevelon abruptly took hold of the shaft of the arrow and twisted it free. He gave a harsh grunt of pain, then, ashen-faced, tossed the arrow behind Magariz.

“Thank you,” the voice said, and from the darkness emerged the largest hound Nevelon had ever seen, pale cream and gold. It paced carefully to the arrow, its eyes on Nevelon’s throat, then picked it up and disappeared back into the night.

“Thank you, Azhure,” Magariz called softly. “I think you saved my life.”

Nevelon heard the name. Azhure?

Magariz shifted his black eyes back to Nevelon. “Borneheld is King? Priam is dead?”

Nevelon nodded warily. He could just make out the woman now. Raven-haired, she had a magnificent bow drawn tight in her hands. He noticed that two of his men, Ravensbundmen, were staring at the bow fixedly. “Yes. Priam died some weeks ago. He developed a fatal brain fever and died crazed.”

“Well,” Magariz said. “The message remains the same.”

Message? Would he live after all?

“As you can see, Nevelon, Azhure and myself wear the emblem of the blazing blood-red sun. Do you know it?”

Nevelon shook his head.

“Well, Nevelon, then you niust remember it. It is the emblem of the StarMan. You must remember the Prophecy that so many spoke of in Gorkenfort.”

“It was a lie.” Nevelon’s voice did not sound very sure.

“No,” Magariz said, wiping his face free of any expression of artfulness. “The Prophecy does not lie. We wait for the StarMan to lead us — and Achar — to victory against Gorgrael.”

“Axis!” Nevelon spat, remembering Magariz naming Axis as the StarMan at Gorkenfort as he revealed his treacherous nature and deserted Borneheld. “You both betrayed us at Gorkenfort.”

Magariz’s face hardened. “No, Nevelon. Axis and I, as others, did the best we could in a situation that was unwin-nable. Now listen, for I have a message for Borneheld. Tell him that if he does not ally himself with the cause of the StarMan he will die. Only Axis can lead Achar to victory. Tell him that if he persists in denying the Prophecy then the Prophecy will tear him apart. If he has won a kingdom, then he will not long enjoy it. Tell him Axis comes, and he conies with the power of the Prophecy behind him.”

“And allied with the Forbidden?” Nevelon asked harshly.

“Allied with our friends, Nevelon,” Magariz said. “We have an alliance built on trust and friendship. Tell me, how well does Borneheld trust those around him? News of the Prophecy spreads throughout Achar. The past is crumbling beneath our feet. Reach forward and embrace the future, Nevelon.”

Nevelon spat at Magariz’s feet.

“A brave, but somewhat foolish action, Nevelon. What will it accomplish? Remember my message for Borneheld. Now, I must go. Do not think to follow us. Your horses have been scattered and it will take you hours to find them. I would take your weapons, but if I did that you would be easy prey for the Skraelings, and I want my message to reach Borneheld. Your sentries are dead, killed by these hounds. Azhure?”